


Sum of Memories

by RevenantAvenger90



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: AU, American Revolution, Assassins, Connor Goes to the Past, Dagger of Time, Edward is a Charismatic Jerk, F/M, Foul Language, Gen, Golden Age of Piracy, Jackdaw - Freeform, Life at Sea, Native American Character, Pirates, Prince of Persia - Freeform, Spanish, Spanish vulgarity, Templars, Time Travel, Welsh Character, Welsh swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevenantAvenger90/pseuds/RevenantAvenger90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>June, 1777: During a mission, Connor Kenway encounters more than he bargained for when he is sent hurtling to a time that is not his own. Note: Alternate Universe as of the release of Black Flag last year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Mostly gen, though there may be some eventual Edward/OC. Mentions of very slight Connor/OC.
> 
> Warnings: Violence, gore, and Welsh, English, and Spanish swearing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beginning.

  
**_Prologue: The Storm._ **

_"I am the Morrigan. Look for me on the battlefield, in the whirlwind or the storm. I am the daughter of memory, the harbinger of fate, the bringer of death, and the mother of change."_

_June 9, 1777. Caribbean Sea._  


The storm had picked up in the past hour or so. Connor Kenway ground his teeth as he strained against the _Aquila's_ helm, listening to the shouts of the crew as they struggled with the rigging; some were bailing water from the bilge, others were lashing down cargo, and still more were in the process of patching what holes there were that had already opened in the hull. On the deck below, Mr. Faulkner hollered at the men to halve the sails, hold strong.

Up ahead, Connor glimpsed a flash of light in the distance: his target was in sight.

"Keep her steady, boys!" he called over the roar of the thunder and the waves. "I see her!"

Faulkner turned at the sound of his voice, a strange look on his face.

"Captain, are you certain it's her?" he asked. Connor opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden gust of wind jerked the _Aquila_ to the side, and he was forced to heave against the wheel again, groaning with exertion as he struggled to keep her on course.

"It's her," the Captain yelled back. "It's the _Morrigan._ I can see the mast light."

Faulkner started to shout something in return, but a sudden flash of light lit the horizon. A second later, the thunder rolled across the ocean again; a sharp wind followed directly on its heels, making the masts groan as the ship bucked and shuddered beneath Connor's feet. Up ahead, something tilted, then fell to the side.

The _Morrigan_ was down.

"She is down, Mister Faulkner!" Connor shouted. "Give me full sail! We have to get there before she sinks!"

As Faulkner called for full sail and the crew responded, Connor frowned and strained again against the helm. The winds were getting worse, and the _Aquila_ was groaning more and more loudly. She would not last long, at this rate. However, Connor had faith that she would, at the very least, get them to their target safely.

"Sir, if I might ask?" Faulkner had come up beside Connor, bracing himself against the railing in front of the helm. "What's so important about the _Morrigan_ that we'd sail right into the middle of the storm to get her?"

Connor took a second to heave against another gust of wind. Then he turned, teeth gritted, to his first mate.

"The captain stole an artifact that has the potential to be very, very dangerous," he hollered. The wind swept his words away almost as quickly as he had uttered them, but he knew that Faulkner had heard him. A wave crashed over the deck, leaving them spluttering, but they managed to stay on their feet. Connor continued, "We have to retrieve it and return it to its rightful master!"

"Right!" Faulkner glanced forward again, and then he looked back to the Captain. "So, what's your plan, sir?"

Connor smiled grimly. "We take in all sail, set anchor, and I go retrieve the artifact."

"But sir, the sea-"

"You are acting Captain until I return, Mister Faulkner." They were getting close to their destination. "If I do not return, take the _Aquila_ to Boston and continue the fight. I will have succeeded in the most important aspect of my mission, even if I do not return it to its owner."

They braced themselves against another wave, and afterwards, Faulkner turned to Connor once more.

"Sir, what about Miss Delacroix?" the older man asked. "What should I tell her if you don't come back?"

Connor was silent a moment, thoughts drifting to his sometimes-partner. The young woman in question was half-Native and half-French, and was the same age as he was. They had met in Boston when they were 15, and he had not seen her again until they were 17, as she had been down south, adventuring in the Spanish territories.  Together, they had explored the Ruins in Cerros; they had also worked together with slowly-increasing frequency as the War picked up its pace. After she had been wounded during the Battles of Lexington and Concord in 1775, he had brought her to the Davenport Homestead to convalesce. They had grown closer during that time. She had saved his life with her marksmanship when, in 1776, she had shot through the noose that had been slowly strangling him, dropping him to the ground and saving his life. At the signing of the Declaration of Independence, he had been shocked to find that she had been present. The memory of her standing there in the dress that she had been wearing still made shivers run down his spine every time he recalled it. Sometimes, it felt as though he had known her all his life, and others, it felt as though he would be unable to live without her.

Connor had wondered, more than once, what all it meant.

"Captain?"

"Tell her-" Connor cut himself off, thinking about it. After a second, during which he struggled with both his thoughts and the helm, he turned to Faulkner again. "Tell her that I am sorry. And that I will see her again, someday."

Faulkner nodded slowly. "Aye, Captain."

Connor returned his gaze to the fore, raising his voice as he called for "full stop" and "drop anchor," taking in the sight of the wrecked ship.

The _Morrigan's_ main mast was in splinters, floating almost lazily on the surface of the heaving ocean. The hull was on its side, taking on water. All around the wreckage, men wailed and flailed, trying their best to grab onto anything that would keep them afloat. Connor spotted the _Morrigan's_ captain clinging to a section of the mast, his hands empty.

He had left the artifact in the ship.

Connor swore faintly and, making sure his pistols and other weapons were secured on his person, he turned to Faulkner.

"Take the helm, Mister Faulkner," Connor instructed. He eyed the _Morrigan's_ progress. There would not be time to strip down out of his robes and Captain's coat. "And help those of the _Morrigan's_ crew whom you can. If I do not return before the ship sinks, make for Boston like we discussed."

"Aye, Captain," Faulkner replied with a nod, accepting Connor's hat when the younger man handed it to him. With that, Connor turned, headed to the starboard gunwale, and dove overboard, swimming for the _Morrigan's_ slowly sinking hull.

The current was strong, the waves tall; each time a wave crashed over his head, Connor had to fight his way back up, clawing towards the surface of the icy water with all the tenacity of a drenched mountain cat. His coat and robes weighed him down, but it was nothing that he was not used to dealing with. It took him all of seven minutes to reach the wreckage, ignoring the shouts of the men around him. Then he took a deep breath, and willingly dove down beneath the waves.

The ocean was calmer under the surface, though Connor still had to struggle not to be thrown off-course by the waves that threatened to heave him back and forth. Before him loomed the _Morrigan's_ sanded deck, gleaming a pale green-brown through the darkness of the murky water. Connor swam for the opening to the Captain's Cabin. The interior of the room was pitch-black; Connor closed his eyes and centered himself, his Second Sight allowing him to distinguish where his target was located. As an object of incredible value, it would have been kept in the cabin, unless the man was unaware of just what it was that he had stolen.

Connor's search paid off a second later: a gleam of gold caught his attention from across the room. He opened his eyes again, swimming towards the small chest half-hidden beneath a heavy chest of drawers. He would have to be quick; his air was beginning to run out. Reaching down, he grasped the box he was aiming for, and tugged.

It did not budge. Connor forced himself to remain calm as his lungs began to burn; it would do him no good to panic and would only serve to deplete his air more quickly. Glancing at the chest of drawers, he realized that it was bolted to the floor. His pistols were useless underwater. The chest was mostly iron-bound... but for the sides and top of it.

Connor drew his tomahawk.

Gritting his teeth, he flipped the blade around so that the spike was down and then, fighting against the water's resistance, he swung it down into the wooden portion of the chest's side. The chest itself did not move, but the unprotected wood splintered easily beneath the powerful blow. The slight victory bolstered his spirits more than it probably should have; the second blow's opening of a hole in the chest bolstered him further. Connor struck it once more, and then he was able to reach his hand inside after sheathing his tomahawk once more. The items he was searching for met his grasping fingers. He was quick to pull them free: a swatch of oilcloth was wrapped around a strangely-shaped dagger of some kind. Connor did not know precisely what the dagger was for, only that it was the source of the danger he had been warned about.

But now, it was time to get out of this wreck before it sank any further.

Connor turned towards the door, intending to escape the way he had come in. As he swam upwards towards it, he could see the doors attached to the frame, swinging back and forth. He would have to be careful. Around him, the timber of the ship's hull groaned. The pressure was increasing. Connor's lungs burned. The need for air was nearly overpowering; he struck towards the door again, desperate to get out of there and get to the surface. He passed the doorframe, extending his arms outward for another sweep.

A sudden surge of water nearly forced him backwards into the cabin. Connor reached out with his free hand and grabbed the frame, grinding his teeth against the current. A dark shape moved in the corner of his eye. Connor turned instinctively towards it, thrusting his hand containing the strange dagger out to defend himself from whatever predator was there. The other door slammed into his arm, forcing the dagger back towards him.

A searing burst of pain spread through his stomach. Then coldness.

Connor gasped, releasing what little air he had left in a stream of bubbles. His lungs seized reflexively; icy saltwater rushed down his throat, threatening to gag him even as he looked down to the metal blade that was buried in his abdomen. His hands shook as he laboriously pulled himself free of the cabin, floating away from the sinking hull of the ship as blackness began to creep in on his vision. Connor gasped vainly for air, only succeeding in inhaling more water. Crimson gushed, scalding, through his fingers with every heartbeat. His hand loosened its grip as numbness took hold.

A golden flash of light filled his vision. There was sunlight, above him, though everything was beginning to grow dim.

The last thing that Connor Kenway saw before his heart stopped was a large, dark shape soaring overhead, a splash violently disturbing the water. Something rushed past him, hurtling down into the depths.

Golden, again. Connor knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Connor's character is based largely off of the game, with a few headcanon quirks thrown in. Edward, on the other hand, is purely headcanon-personality based off of what the writers of the game have said about him in interviews. Cosette and Rhian are my own creations, as is most of the _Jackdaw's_ crew, including Gibbs (a nod to Joshamee Gibbs of Pirates of the Caribbean, of course, whose actor also played Robert Faulkner in ACIII), Gregson, etc. Doing a lot of research to keep this fic as "real" as possible; thank God for "Pirates: The Scourge of the Seas" by John Reeve Carpenter, and for various websites, which have proven invaluable.
> 
> Chronology: Starts off in summer of 1777, so before Connor teams up with Haytham. Will do my best to keep things consistent. Also, 1715 era: Begins after Edward has met and been trained by the Assassins, but well before he has matured into the man we know from Assassin's Creed: Forsaken. 
> 
> Also published on [Tumblr: The Assassins' Pub](http://revenantavenger90-acfanfics.tumblr.com/), [My DeviantArt Account](http://elvenwhitemage.deviantart.com/), and [My FanFiction.Net Account](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9257198/1/Sum-of-Memories).


	2. Chapter 1: Likeness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1: Edward, meet Connor.

_**Chapter 1: Likeness.** _

_“Those who come to the sea will always return to it. Whether they’re alive or dead is another matter entirely.”_  
  
 _June 9, 1715. Caribbean Sea._

  
_“Wyt ti’n hoffi dyri, Derwydd? Hob y deri dando… Unwaith oerais i o’th herwydd! Dyna ganu eto…”_  
  
The day was not particularly unpleasant, for being smack-dab in the middle of the hurricane season. Edward Kenway leaned upon the  _Jackdaw’s_  wheel, breathing deeply and contentedly of the briny air as he sang softly. Their destination was coming up soon: they had heard of a merchant vessel that had recently been shipwrecked out here, and as of the moment, her contents were free for the taking. Opportunistic as he was, he had no desire to resist the lure of fresh supplies, especially when they needed the money.  
  
 _“Ym mhob ardal y may brydôn! Canig hen y co’… Pwy na allant ddweud penillion! Hen gân co’… Canig hen y co’, hob y deri dan y to!”_  
  
As they came up on the location, Edward ordered the sails be furled and anchor to be dropped, eyeing the waters before them with curiosity and trepidation. They were churning angrily, very different from the tranquil sea all around them. He let his first mate take the helm and crossed over to the gunwale to gaze down into the waves below. There was no cause for the disturbance that he could see. Behind him, the crew readied the diving bell, and Edward shook his head with a mental sigh as he entered his cabin to strip out of outer clothing, which he knew would weigh him down in the water.  
  
 _“Buom unwaith yn garaidon! Hob y deri dando,”_  he sang as he shrugged out of his pistol harness, laying it out on the cot against the starboard wall.  _“Ti a geisiasist dorri ‘nghalon! Dyna ganu eto…”_  
  
Next to go were his outer robes, carefully folded and placed beside the bandolier, followed shortly by his heavy boots. Comfortable as they were, they would only prove to be cumbersome in the water. Oh, he could swim with everything on just fine, but the weather was calm, there were no other ships to be seen for miles around, and aside from the odd shark or so, Edward had little to fear in the warm, calm waters of the Caribbean. Still, it would not do to go out unarmed. He stuck a knife in his belt, as well as a cutlass, and strapped his Hidden Blade onto his arm.  
  
 _“Am funudyn pwy fu’n,”_  he sang as he dropped his boots beside the foot of the cot.  _“Hidio druan am dy dro?”_  
  
With that, he turned and made his way back onto the deck, where the crew was hoisting the diving bell out over the  _Jackdaw’s_  side using the ship’s cargo lift.  
  
 _“Deri dando, wyt ti’n gwarando! Hen gân co’?”_  he finished, coming over to the small group by the gunwale. _“Canig hen y co’! Hob y deri dan y to!”_  
  
“Ready, Captain!” one of the deckhands exclaimed with a grin. Edward gave him a small smile, glancing down into the dark depths beneath them.  
  
“Good,” he replied, his Welsh accent noticeably audible through the British inflections. “All right, then, drop her and we’ll get this done!”  
  
“Aye, Captain!” The diving bell jerked slightly. “Bell away!”  
  
It plunged past the deck level and crashed into the water below, spraying water as high as Edward’s head before it all splashed down again. Grinning with anticipation, he stepped up onto the gunwale, drew a deep breath, raised his arms over his head, and pushed off with his toes, arching his back into a perfect swan dive as he sliced into the cool water below.  
  
Everything took on a surreal feeling as he opened his eyes, the world around him blurring into a haze of blue-green and shimmering white, broken only by the chain of the sinking diving bell as it plunged into the darker water below him. Edward reached out and grabbed onto the chain, letting it pull him down, down, down into the depths, bubbles trailing after him as he descended quickly. It felt as though his lungs were being constricted the deeper he went. The feeling was discomfiting, but it was one that Edward was more or less used to, by now, so he managed to ignore it.  
  
He had just sighted the first sign of the wreck beneath when his blurry gaze caught sight of a twinkle of gold a little ways below him. Edward let go of the chain, and paused, trying to make out what he was seeing.  
  
The gold was attached to a dark shape, floating there in the water. The shape itself was vaguely humanoid; he could make out hints of white and red and blue, in addition to what he realized was the glint of metal around the middle. A darker substance was floating in the water around it. Blood, most likely.  
  
Edward swam closer.  
  
It was, indeed, a man, though in the murk of the water, Edward could not make out his face, or his race or profession. Plunging his hands through the cloud of red toward the man, he found that it was, indeed, blood: the liquid was still warm, and when he touched the man’s abdomen near where the glint of gold was, more blood gushed out to diffuse through the water around them.  
  
The man’s hand twitched slightly at the motion.  
  
 _Cach,_  Edward thought.  _He **would**  be alive._  
  
And even though Edward was a pirate, he could not bring himself to leave this injured man to drown. Having nearly drowned several times himself, Edward knew what a horrible fate it was. He would not wish it on anybody but his enemies, and as of right now, the man was no enemy of Edward’s. Still, it was quite a ways to the surface, again, and he still had some treasure hunting to do… That glint of gold caught his eye again, flashing eerily brightly through the gloom.  
  
Edward swore again in his mind, grabbed the man under the arms, and swam for the surface.  
  
They were only about fifteen or twenty feet down, but the distance was still such that he had to stop briefly to let his lungs expand and let his body acclimate to the pressure change. He had no desire to get the bends, and despite being as reckless as he was, he was not stupid. The man was dead weight in Edward’s arms; every stroke was a struggle to pull him upwards, though their progress was expedited when Edward grabbed onto the chain of the diving bell to help himself along. He exhaled the entire way up.  
  
Within two minutes, they broke the surface, Edward gasping, and the man unresponsive in his arms.  
  
“Man overboard!” he shouted up. “Someone throw me a rope, he’s still alive!”  
  
The alarmed faces of several of his crewmembers appeared at the gunwale, and one of them tossed down a rope to him. Edward tied the end around the man’s chest beneath his armpits, and took hold of it himself.  
  
“Pull us up!”  
  
The crew did as they were told, hoisting Edward and his passenger into the air with a speed and efficiency that had only been achieved through long months and years of seafaring. Edward had only seconds to position himself between the man’s back and the gunwale. Then there were hands on them, pulling them onto the  _Jackdaw’s_  top deck.  
  
“Careful, he’s injured,” he warned as he steadied himself on the well-sanded wood. He turned to one of the rats. “Get the surgeon.”  
  
The boy nodded and scurried off. Edward turned to observe as his crewmembers laid the unconscious man on his back on the deck.  
  
The stranger had black hair, and his skin was deeply tanned. Edward could not tell if the color was natural or not; judging by the man’s foul-weather greatcoat, worn over a strikingly familiar set of robes, the other was probably a sailor, himself. For all Edward knew, the stranger was as pale as he was, under the clothing.  
  
“Blimey, he weighs a ton!” exclaimed one of the crewmembers who had hauled the stranger aboard.  
  
Edward could see why. Beneath the layers of clothing, the man was a mountain of pure muscle. He had felt it while he was pulling him to the surface, but had not noticed it. As he took in the sight of the white and blue clothing clinging to the other’s chiseled torso, he took note of the red sash around his waist, the familiar emblem there, and the golden hilt of a strange dagger sticking out of the other man’s upper abdomen.  
  
It was then that Edward realized that the man was not breathing.  
  
 _“Cach!”_  he grumbled. He stepped forward and knelt beside the man’s head. “All right, let’s see if we can’t get you breathing.”  
  
Edward had learned an artificial breathing technique from a Chinese monk he had met, once. He had no idea if it would work on a drowning victim, but he figured it was worth a try. Turning the man onto his less-injured side, Edward stiffened the first two fingers of his right hand into a stabbing point, and drove them into several specific pressure points along the man’s back and ribs, and then pushed, hard, against his chest.  
  
With a great gasp, the man choked, and began coughing violently, seawater and blood spewing across the deck with every heave. The man’s left arm, the one that he was not lying on, moved sluggishly forward to brace him against the deck as he vomited up what seemed like gallons of water.  
  
Edward sat back slightly, feeling both wary and self-accomplished. For his first time resuscitating someone, he thought he had not done a half-bad job of it. A small smirk curled his thin lips.  
  
Meanwhile, the man finally seemed to have finished coughing. He groaned and slumped bonelessly against the decking before he finally rolled onto his back, squinting against the sunlight.  
  
“M-Mister Faulkner?” His voice was rough, hoarse and weak from the abuse he had put his throat through. Edward noted that he had a strange accent. In all his travels, he had never heard an accent like that one.  
  
Edward leaned over the man, opening his mouth to reply. A pair of tawny eyes darted over to his face. They widened abruptly; there was a snickt! sound and a flash of silver. Edward registered the sound just in time to dodge backwards, avoiding the slash that would otherwise have slit his throat from ear to ear.  
  
In a flash, both he and his sudden, strange adversary were on their feet. The crew hastily backed away. The pair circled around each other; the dark stranger crouched, wolf-like, on the boards, lips curled to bare white teeth in a feral snarl, a dagger in his left hand while his right curled around his wounded stomach. Edward eyed the other suspiciously, his own dagger in his right hand, his Hidden Blade ejected at his left wrist. He could not recall consciously arming himself, but it did not matter.  
  
“Who are you?” the man demanded, gravelly voice a dark snarl. “Where have you taken me?”  
  
Edward gave a snort.  
  
“We haven’t taken you anywhere, boy,” he groused, stepping carefully over the slick patches on the deck, the sanded boards smooth beneath the soles of his bare feet. He watched as his opponent stumbled and gasped before righting himself. “And you owe me your life, so I’d use some manners, were I you.”  
  
The other man grimaced and grunted, curling in on his abdomen slightly, staggering to his next step.  
  
“Come on, you can barely stand,” Edward groused, admittedly curious as to who this man was that he could stand and fight with a dagger buried in his guts. “I wouldn’t have saved you just to kill you and take whatever goods you’ve got on you. Give it up and let our surgeon tend you.”  
  
The other man grunted again, squinting at the crewmen gathered around him. Edward could see his dark eyes darting around, quickly calculating. It was then that he realized something: This man was just like him. A fighter, a predator, a madman.  
  
An Assassin.  
  
“We work in the darkness, to serve the light,” Edward stated, just loud enough for the stranger to hear. The other man froze, tensing impossibly as his hazy gaze darted over to Edward. The Welshman could see the other’s pulse fluttering at his throat; he was beginning to sway where he stood. His white clothing was slowly soaking through with red. The stranger would not last long.  
  
“W-Who…” He paused, choking, and hacked a mouthful of blood onto the  _Jackdaw’s_  deck. “W-Who are you?”  
  
“Captain Edward Kenway,” Edward replied, feeling a small, smug surge of pride at the title, which had not faded during the two years he had been a pirate. “And yourself?”  
  
The man stared at him for a long moment, breathing growing more labored by the second. Edward was the first to see it: the man’s brown eyes fluttered, his tanned face going pale. He sheathed his weapons and darted forward just in time to catch the stranger as his knees gave out. The stranger slumped against him, breathing heavy and labored. Warmth spread to the front of Edward’s wet clothing. He knew that it was the stranger’s blood. As he lowered them to the deck, he absently wondered how much blood the other man had lost; glancing around, he realized that the deck was all but covered in it.  
  
Good thing the stranger was so big, then, or else he’d have been dead ages ago.  
  
The man gasped something as Edward lowered them to the deck, brown eyes fluttering, breath rasping, now. As Edward laid the other man down on his side, the other’s fingers grasped at the sleeve of Edward’s shirt.  
  
“What?” Edward asked, frowning in confusion. The man groaned, eyelids fluttering as his gaze darted around.  
  
 _“Oh niiawenhátie…?”_  He gasped a couple more times, shuddering, and coughed another mouthful of blood. _“Ista? Raké:ni? Oh niiawenhátie…? Í:se… Í:’i… Í:’i…”_  
  
Edward stared at the stranger, wondering at the strange language he was babbling in. It was not any of the European languages, that much Edward knew, and he did not recognize it from his time in the Caribbean. Lips thinning with his tension, he grabbed the darker man by the chin and tilted his head up so that he could meet his tawny gaze with his own ocean-blue one.  
  
“What. Is. Your. Name?” Edward ground out, frowning sternly at him. The man coughed again, closing his eyes and grimacing, but when he opened his eyes again, he was a little bit more lucid.  
  
 _“Ratohnhaké:ton,”_  he murmured. Then his eyes rolled back up into his head, and he went limp in Edward’s grasp. Edward swore, and glanced around for the first time since he had sent for the surgeon. The entire exchange between him and the stranger could not have taken more than five minutes from violent start to eerie finish, so where the hell was the surgeon?  
  
“Where the hell is Gibbs?” he demanded. Just then, the deckhand he had sent for the surgeon came rushing back up on deck.  
  
“Gibbs says to bring him down,” the boy gasped out. “I told him the man had been stabbed in the stomach, and he told me to just bring him down below.”  
  
Edward sighed.  
  
“Right,” he muttered, and then looked up. “Andrews, you get his legs. I’ll take his arms. Let’s get this done!”  
  
The deckhand he had asked for came forward immediately, and together, they hoisted the unconscious man up, staggering slightly under his weight. Edward grunted. It felt like the man must have weighed almost two-hundred pounds, and for a moment, he wondered how it was he had managed to get him to the ship at all. Then he pushed the thought away, and he and Andrews carefully carried the unconscious man down belowdecks to the surgeon’s quarters.  
  
Gibbs was waiting for them, his hands freshly washed and his tools laid out. When they brought the stranger in, the surgeon looked up at them, and his expression shifted to one of slight dismay.  
  
“Any idea ‘ow long ‘e’s been like this?” he asked, to which Edward shook his head. His face was red, breath short, and he grunted as he and Andrews hoisted the stranger onto the operating table and finally relieved themselves of the burden he posed. Edward let out a relieved sigh and shook his wet hair out of his eyes.  
  
“No idea,” he answered, the Welsh accent lilting in comparison to the clipped British. He turned to Andrews. “Thanks for the help. Now get back to the deck. I want her cleaned and sanded by the time I get back up there.”  
  
“Aye, Captain.” Andrews nodded, and returned to the deck while Edward turned to where Gibbs was bent over the stranger, examining the hilt of the dagger buried in his upper abdomen.  
  
“What do you say?” Edward asked casually. “Is it worth trying to save him?”  
  
Gibbs shrugged. “There’s an ‘igh probability of infection with a wound such as this, an’ ‘e’ll probably get pneumonia from the seawater in ‘is lungs. I’d say it don’t look good.”  
  
“But there’s a chance that he’ll survive?”  
  
“A slim one.” Gibbs leaned back and gestured to the hilt of the dagger. “‘S a miracle ‘e ‘asn’t bled out, yet, it is.”  
  
Edward sighed. “Well, fix him up as best you can. I have questions for him, and I don’t want him dying before they’re answered.”  
  
“Aye, Captain,” Gibbs replied, and turned to fetch a bottle of rum, some catgut, and a needle. “I’ll need ya to strip ‘im outta ‘is shirt, an’ ‘old him down, if ya please.”  
  
Edward sighed, and set about peeling the coat and robes from the stranger. It was only then that he got a good look at the clothing, and realized that it was cut in a very strange fashion. Edward frowned. Nobody wore a coat or robes like these, not even others of the Brotherhood. Who was this man, who had decided to go for a swim in the middle of the Caribbean Sea with a dagger in his belly, while dressed in strange clothes and armed with… Edward did a double-take. Was that a hatchet, of some kind? And what the hell was with those pistols?  
  
“Captain?”  
  
He would have to investigate later. For now, he laid aside the man’s effects and started tugging at the sash around the man’s waist. It came off with some difficulty, and then came the buttons of the strange shirt. Only once the bloodied fabric had been pulled away from the dark-skinned man did Edward realize that the tan hue of his flesh seemed to be his natural skin tone. The man was all muscle; much of his chiseled, rock-hard chest and arms were cris-crossed and pocked with stark, pale scars, but underneath all the scarring was the tan hue that characterized his face and hands.  
  
Maybe he was a Mulatto, then?  
  
Still, the abdominal wound had been exposed, and Gibbs needed Edward to hold the stranger down even though the surgeon had tied down the man’s legs. Obeying, Edward braced his hands on the man’s shoulders and bore down with all of his not inconsiderable weight. There was a murmur from Gibbs. A second later, Edward heard the dagger slide free with a sickening, sucking sound, and the stranger jerked awake with a harsh groan, the muscles in his jaw jumping and tendons in his neck standing out starkly as he forcefully swallowed any and all cries of pain. Edward braced him a little more firmly as the man writhed, instinctively trying to move away from the source of the pain.  
  
Finally, he subsided with a choked-off grunt and lay there, panting. There was a sloshing sound; again, as soon as the pain began, the stranger clenched his eyes shut, grimacing, teeth gritted. Thankfully, it seemed to only take a moment until Gibbs finished disinfecting the wound. However, then came the stitching. Edward was forced to all but lay across the man’s chest in an effort to hold him down while the surgeon tried the wound and then sutured it shut, surmising that there was no damage to the man’s innards that would not heal on its own.  
  
When it was all finished, Edward eased off a bit.  
  
In thanks, he got a fist to his jaw. It sent him sprawling, since he had not expected it. By the time he got back up, the stranger was struggling into a sitting position despite Gibbs’s protestations, ignoring the hands pushing against his shoulders.  
  
Edward had had enough.  
  
He got his feet under him, stood up, and socked the stranger across the jaw. The man gasped and reeled back, hands flailing for purchase as he threatened to tip over the edge of the table. Edward wasted no time in grabbing the man by his ponytail and jerking him upright again, tilting the man’s head back so that their gazes met, the tawny one slightly glazed and the ocean-blue one glinting dangerously.  
  
“Listen to me,  _pen bach,”_  he snarled. “There’ll be no more of that, not if you want to keep your nose and ears.” The stranger stared at him hazily, defiance etched into every line of his features. “I mean it. I’m not afraid to lop off something you might miss later, so don’t tempt me.”  
  
The other man stared him down a second longer. Then the fight went out of him as his instinct to struggle waned, and he slumped bonelessly against the table again, eyelids drooping to half-mast. Gibbs swore quietly.  
  
“Captain, I need ‘im ‘eld up so’s I can bandage ‘im,” Gibbs told Edward. Edward complied wordlessly, pulling the man none-too-gently into a sitting position. He grunted in response, but otherwise seemed unable to muster a protest, head lolling limply against his chest. Edward simply held him up as Gibbs bound the stranger’s belly with a bandage, tying it off tightly. After that, they worked together to move the larger man over to the cot against the wall. He seemed to try to help as best he could, but it was only half-successful, as his strength was apparently waning. By the time they laid him carefully upon the cot, the man was out again, sweat beading upon his skin and pain etched into his face even in unconsciousness.  
  
Edward shook his head and turned to Gibbs.  
  
“Come get me when he’s awake and lucid,” Edward instructed. He glanced at the surgeon’s desk, where the bloodstained dagger was sitting innocently. On an impulse, he reached out and palmed it. “I’ll be diving for the next few hours, and then we’ll set sail again.”  
  
“Aye, Captain,” Gibbs replied, and Edward glanced at the unconscious man on the cot once more before he left the cabin, heading for the deck again.  
  
The crew was in the process of hauling the diving bell back up when Edward reemerged into the Caribbean sunlight. He raised an incredulous eyebrow and stood there for a second, watching them, before he shook his head.  
  
“What’re you doing?” he called, resisting the urge to laugh at the startled looks on the group’s faces. “I haven’t yet begun to dive! Lower it again!”  
  
The crew exchanged dumbfounded looks. Then they let the bell sink again. Edward snickered to himself as he shoved the dagger through his belt and dove over the side of the  _Jackdaw_  again, slicing through the deep blue waters to complete his original mission.  
  
Sometimes, it was just too much fun to tease his crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are from "Hob-y-Deri-Dando," which is a traditional Welsh song.
> 
>  **Welsh Translations:**  
>  **Cach** \- literally "shit," but is substituted for any swear under the sun.  
>  **Pen Bach** \- "stupid idiot."
> 
>  **Mohawk Translations:**  
>  **Oh niiawenhátie…?** \- "What's happening...?"  
>  **Ista** \- Mother  
>  **Raké:ni** \- Father  
>  **Í:se** \- You  
>  **Í:'i** \- I
> 
> A/N: Connor's character is based largely off of the game, with a few headcanon quirks thrown in. Edward, on the other hand, is purely headcanon-personality based off of what the writers of the game have said about him in interviews. Cosette and Rhian are my own creations, as is most of the _Jackdaw's_ crew, including Gibbs (a nod to Joshamee Gibbs of Pirates of the Caribbean, of course, whose actor also played Robert Faulkner in ACIII), Gregson, etc. Doing a lot of research to keep this fic as "real" as possible; thank God for "Pirates: The Scourge of the Seas" by John Reeve Carpenter, and for various websites, which have proven invaluable.
> 
> Chronology: Starts off in summer of 1777, so before Connor teams up with Haytham. Will do my best to keep things consistent. Also, 1715 era: Begins after Edward has met and been trained by the Assassins, but well before he has matured into the man we know from Assassin's Creed: Forsaken. 
> 
> Also published on [Tumblr: The Assassins' Pub](http://revenantavenger90-acfanfics.tumblr.com/), [My DeviantArt Account](http://elvenwhitemage.deviantart.com/), and [My FanFiction.Net Account](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9257198/1/Sum-of-Memories).


	3. Chapter 2: Liars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Connor and Edward properly meet, and the _Jackdaw_ has her first naval battle of this story.

**_Chapter 2: Liars._ **

_"Bleedin' hornswogglers!"_

  _June 13, 1715._  


Everything hurt. That was the first thing Connor realized as awareness slowly returned to him. The second thing he realized was that he was completely parched. His tongue stuck like cotton to the roof of his mouth, his eyes were itchy, and his throat was bone-dry and completely sore. He would have swallowed to wet it, but he had no saliva with which to do so. He felt ice-cold but for his head, which felt far too warm and light to be natural. Another bolt of pain flared through his side. He wanted to do something to ease it, but it seemed too lofty a goal to achieve.

A soft groan escaped his lips, making him cough.

"Ah, I see yer awake," said a voice from his right. Connor frowned, not recognizing it. "I'll get ya a drink, an' den I'll go fetch the Captain. 'E's been wantin' ta see ye."

A hand, rough with work and age, slipped itself beneath his head, tilting it up. Connor managed to crack open his dry eyes, swallowing so that he could part his parched lips. The rim of a cup bumped against his teeth. He would have winced had he not been preoccupied by the cool, stale water that flowed into his mouth. He grimaced and swallowed, coughing for a second as the water made its way down his sore throat. Then he took another few sips, and had to stop. He closed his itchy eyes briefly.

When he opened them again, the man who had given him the water was gone. Instead, a different man was sitting in the chair by the table in the middle of the cabin, toying with a dagger absently. Connor realized that the other man looked strangely familiar, as though he had seen him before. For the life of him, however, he could not remember where from.

The stranger's ocean-blue eyes landed on Connor, and Connor blinked drowsily back at him. Thin lips curled into a smirk, and the other leaned back in his chair, putting his booted feet up on the surgeon's table. Connor glanced sluggishly around the room, taking in the array of saws and other medical tools on the walls, the bottles of sour wine for wound washing, and various other things characteristic of the cabin of a ship's surgeon. He placed a hand on his stomach, dizzily remembering what had happened.

And he was still alive, after that? How had that happened? He decided that it must be thanks to the man sitting before him.

Connor coughed slightly and looked back over to the other man.

"Thank you," Connor rasped, and then coughed again, grimacing at the taste of blood and ash in his mouth. Swallowing, he tried again. "For saving my life."

The other man snorted.

"About time you thanked me," he muttered wryly. He had a strange accent that Connor had never heard before. It was lilting, almost similar to the accents of the Irishmen in New York, but more British. "I was starting to think your bad manners were part of your personality, instead of you just being half-dead." He cracked a wry smile, turning the dagger over and over in his hands. "Welcome to the  _Jackdaw._  I'm her captain, Edward Kenway, in case you've forgotten."

And it all came rushing back. Connor could not help but stare at the man across from him. During his lessons with Achilles, Connor had learned about many of the more prolific Assassins across the years. Among those had been Edward Kenway, captain of the  _Jackdaw,_ pirate extraordinaire, and father to Haytham Kenway. Connor was staring at his  _grandfather,_  who had died 21 years before Connor's birth.

It made his head spin. Or maybe that was just the illness. Connor closed his eyes against the dizziness, only just realizing that his stomach was aching and churning uncomfortably. It would hurt too much to throw up, however, and he had nothing in his belly to bring up, so he fought back against the nausea with an iron will.

He swallowed painfully. "I remember."

"I'm glad you do." Edward gave a snort, and Connor heard the sound of the other man's footsteps crossing the floor towards him, accompanied by the scraping of the chair legs. "Hope you're proud of yourself. You gave me quite a shiner."

Connor gulped again. The nausea was getting worse.

"Don't remember that," he gasped, grimacing as his stomach tried to clench and sent a wave of fire throughout his abdomen. He groaned and struggled to turn on his side, panting from the pain and exertion, feeling dizzy and sick and utterly miserable. When he was more or less comfortable again and felt as though he was not about to vomit, he swallowed again and glanced over at Edward. "How did you find me?"

"Pure accident, I assure you." Edward eyed Connor warily. "You about to throw up, or not?"

Connor shook his head weakly, closing his eyes again when the action made his head spin.

"I was diving for treasure in a recent wreck," Edward continued. "Came across you on my way down. 'S a miracle I spotted you. If not for that knife sticking out of your gut, I wouldn't have known you were there."

Right. The dagger.

"Where is it?" Connor asked, taking a few deep breaths in an effort to fight through the discomfort in his body.

"Where's what?"

"The dagger." He swallowed. "I was sent to retrieve it from the man who stole it. I have to return it to its owner."

He heard Edward hum, a noncommittal sound at best.

"That'll depend, I think, on whether or not you survive your wound," the other man commented. "You're pretty sick. Frankly, even Gibbs is surprised you've lasted this long." Connor opened his eyes again to find that Edward was studying him. "You must have a will of iron."

Connor let loose a surprised chuckle, and then groaned. "Please, do not make me laugh. But yes, I have been told, before, that I am stubborn. Other times, less flattering adjectives."

Edward laughed. "Well, at least you're honest. What's your name, boy?"

Connor felt a momentary flash of panic. What could he tell Edward that would not endanger his own future?

"My name is Ratohnhaké:ton," he finally admitted. There was no harm in that, he thought. Edward, as far as he knew, would never make port in the northern Colonies, would never learn anything about the Kanien'kehá:ka, and would never live to make the connection between Connor as he was now, and Haytham Kenway.

Edward stared at Connor as though he had grown another head. "I'm not even going to try to pronounce that. You have a nickname? If not, the crew's gonna start calling you Ratty."

Connor's expression must have belied his distaste for the moniker.

"I go by Connor." He gulped again. "Connor Ke... Just Connor." Creator, that was a poor misdirection, and they both knew it.

"Tell me your surname." It seemed that Edward was not going to let the matter lie. Connor would have sighed, had he not thought it would be more pain than it was worth.

"I have been disowned by what family I have left that is not dead," he bit out, closing his eyes against another wave of nausea. For a second, he was quiet. Then he groaned as the feeling surged, stomach churning violently. "I am going to throw up, now."

Edward had enough sense to place a bucket under Connor's head as the darker man leaned over the side of the cot and succumbed to his nausea. Connor just tried to remain conscious as his stomach clenched powerfully, pulling his wound agonizingly; he vomited up a thin string of dark yellow bile and a little blood before coughing out a few dry-heaves. When it finally died off, he was even more miserable than he had been before, totally exhausted, and his breathing felt labored, as well.

"Maybe you'd better sleep," Edward murmured. Connor almost did not hear him. He was already fading. Before blackness took him entirely, he heard Edward sit back in his chair, his voice floating softly into the first few lines of a song.

" _Dacw 'nghariad i lawr yn y berllan, tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal..."_

* * *

_June 17, 1715._

Connor had been in and out of consciousness for the past four days. Edward had waited patiently for the other man to heal, especially after Gibbs had scolded him for making Connor overexert himself upon his first real awakening. Gibbs said that Connor's condition had been worsened by the strain of talking to Edward and by the vomiting he had endured. Frankly, Edward was not surprised. The color of the fluids that Connor had brought up had been alarming, to say the least.

Containing his curiosity, however, was a difficult thing to do. Edward was an inquisitive creature by nature; it was what had made him want to learn about the Assassins in the first place, when he had first met his mentor. He was also incredibly impatient, which could be a curse, at times. It was also what had made him pursue piracy in the first place. So far, it had worked.

Still, it was getting difficult to distract himself from the burning desire for answers that still coiled hot in the pit of his stomach.

From where had Connor come? How had he come to be twenty feet below the surface of the Caribbean Sea? Who had stabbed him? How old was he? What was so important about that dagger that he had nearly died for it?

And what the bleeding hell was his last name?

Edward hated,  _hated,_ being denied a straight answer about anything, and that was what Connor had done. The fact that Gibbs had forbidden Edward from seeing Connor until the other man had healed a bit had prevented Edward from forcing the answers out of him, but as soon as the tan man was strong enough for conversation, Edward intended to extract the answers from him.

By any means necessary.

"Captain!"

Edward blinked himself out of his brooding as the sound of the quartermaster's voice reached him through the cabin door.

"Enter!" he called back. The door opened, and Gregson stuck his head in.

"Captain, you're wanted on deck," he stated. "Ship's been sighted off the starboard bow. Spanish privateers, looks like." He gave an eager grin. "Flyin' the royal colors, they are. Looks like we've got a fight on our 'ands."

Edward found his lips stretching into a feral grin.

"Excellent," he growled. This was just what he needed to take his mind off of the answers he did not have. "Have the men prepare for battle. Chain-shot, Gregson, we want her as intact as possible."

"Aye, Captain!" Gregson was gone in a flash, calling all hands to stations and shouting for loaded guns. Edward himself got to his feet and hurried around his cabin, stowing a pair of pistols in the bandolier on his chest, another pair in the holsters at the back of his belt, and arming himself further with a pair of cutlasses as well as his Hidden Blades and a few rope darts. Then he left his cabin and made his way up to the helm. Gregson glanced over at Edward as he came up to him, fishing his spyglass out of his belt pouch as he went. Extending it and holding it up to his right eye, he cast about for a second until he could see the Spanish ship in the distance. It was a two-mast schooner, angular sails white against the blue sky.

Edward allowed himself a small smirk when he saw that the schooner was only lightly armed, at best; in addition to two swivel guns mounted at her bow, she had three cannons on the side that was visible to Edward; she probably had about six cannons all together, and was likely crewed by about 75 men, compared to his own crew of 105.

Easy pickings. Perfect.

"Run up the flag," Edward said, stowing his spyglass again and coming to take the helm from Gregson. Gregson grinned with all the giddiness of a child on Christmas Day, and went to do as he was told. A second later, the  _Jackdaw's_ Jolly Roger was flying high, stark white against black against bright blue and truly terrifying to all those who knew what it signified. Edward himself took one hand off the wheel to pull his hood up over his head. Then he swung the wheel wide, heading straight towards the schooner. In addition to firepower, the  _Jackdaw,_  averaging about 16 knots on a good day, had the advantage of speed on the schooner, which could only reach about 12 and a half knots or so. It would be easy to overtake her.

He saw it when the schooner realized she was being pursued. The crew on the ship began to scurry about, preparing for battle. Edward had expected as much. Though the schooner was outgunned, her crew outnumbered, she was a privateer vessel; it would be remiss of her crew not to try to destroy the pirate ship.

It would have been wiser of them to surrender.

Within moments, the schooner was within range of the  _Jackdaw's_  swivel guns. Edward grinned as he steered her slightly away from their target.

"Give them a warning shot across her bow," he commanded. Gregson relayed the order, and a half-second later, the port-side swivel roared its challenge across the water. Edward saw one of the other ship's unluckier crewmembers take the round to his chest. It blew straight through him and kept going as the impact tossed his decimated corpse overboard into the water.

One would think people would have learned, by now, not to fuck with Edward Kenway and the  _Jackdaw._

"Prepare to fire broadside!" he commanded, seeing the schooner doing the same up ahead. "And ready boarding hooks! We'll have her and any cargo she has before the hour's out."

"Aye, captain!" Gregson replied, and rushed off to relay the orders down the weather deck and down the ladder into the gun deck.

Edward focused on his steering; they would have to tack so that they could come about and bring the cannons to bear on the schooner.

"About ship!" he shouted. A second later, he spun the wheel to the right, and the  _Jackdaw_  banked hard to starboard. That brought the port side about; less than a heartbeat later, he gave the order to "Open fire!" and a volley exploded out of the  _Jackdaw's_  gunports, the chain shot whirling around and around before it impacted.

Some of the shots hit men, who promptly found themselves missing limbs, bisected, or even headless. Other shots shredded most of the schooner's sails and rigging; a pair of good shots took out the mainmast and severely damaged the mizzenmast. Screams echoed from the schooner. Edward, for his part, just grinned, the feral joy of a naval battle coursing through his veins. Then the  _Jackdaw_  was past her, and Edward called for half-sail.

"About ship!" he shouted again once they were a decent distance away from the schooner. He tacked again, drawing her about in a circle so that the  _Jackdaw_ was sailing back towards the crippled ship once more.

"Take in all sail! Prepare to board!"

He was aware of the crew doing as he told them to; as he let the helmsman take the wheel, he vaulted over the rail to the deck below. The  _Jackdaw_  came up beside the schooner, slowing.

There was the crack of a musket firing. The shot whizzed past Edward's left ear, ripping through the side of his hood and drawing a line of blood across the side of his face and the shell of his ear. He barely even blinked at it, but his blue gaze darted to the sailor who had taken the shot. He was a little thing, scrawny and beardless, perched in what was left of the mizzenmast's rigging with his legs looped and tangled in the rope. Even as Edward watched, he began hastily reloading his musket for a second shot. Edward snorted.

He would get that little  _fwcar._

"Go!" he yelled, and launched himself onto a rope dangling from the  _Jackdaw's_ mizzenmast, swinging easily across the gap between the two ships. The  _Jackdaw's_  crew roared fierce battle-cries as they hurled their boarding hooks across to the schooner. The hooks caught in what was left of the rigging and the gunwale, and only a second later, the first crewmembers were making their way onto the schooner.

Edward's feet hit the schooner's sanded pine deck. He rolled to absorb the impact and came up with his sword out and swinging. One Spaniard came at him screaming what could only have been profanities; Edward simply slashed across his opponent's throat with the cutlass in his left hand and moved on, satisfied with having shut the man up. Around him, the battle picked up in earnest as the  _Jackdaw's_  crew entered the fray. Within moments, the deck was a writhing mass of sheer chaos, blood flying everywhere, corpses falling in people's paths, blades flashing, pistols firing. Edward whirled, swords scything through limbs and torsos; stabbing one man in the chest with his left cutlass, he tore out another man's throat with his other. At the same time, he pulled a pistol out of his belt and fired off a shot at a Spaniard who was running at Gregson's back with a dagger.

Within minutes, Spaniards began surrendering. The ship was theirs.

" _¡Muere, cabron!"_

Edward spun around, dodging to the side just in time to avoid a second musket ball, this one aimed for his chest. It was the same rat from earlier. Edward found a smirk growing on his lips as he watched the young man throw his musket aside and hastily draw a cutlass from his belt. Underneath the brim of his opponent's wide hat, Edward watched the boy's green eyes glint furiously, chapped lips parted in a snarl of determination.

This might be fun.

Edward smirked, twirling his remaining cutlass in his hand as he holstered his empty pistol again.

"Don't threaten me, boy," he warned, just shy of laughing outright at the indignant look that spread across his opponent's face. "You'll regret it."

_"¡Vas al infierno y chupa un pene, cabronazo!"_ The boy launched himself at Edward, who simply sidestepped the wild swing and brought his cutlass around, smacking the boy in the backs of the thighs with it as he passed. The boy caught himself, and when he spun to face Edward again, he was smirking. Edward wondered why for a second. Then he frowned as he realized that his left side was stinging. Glancing down without taking his eyes off of his opponent, he found that a neat slash had torn through his leather armor, his clothing, and the skin beneath. It was not a shallow wound, having been deflected more by his ribs than anything.

Furious with himself for dropping his guard, and irrationally furious with the boy for being so sneaky, he looked back up in time to see the boy lift his arms again, the bloodied dagger in his left hand dripping onto the deck, the cutlass in his other hand flipped backwards in a defensive grip. Edward frowned.

All right, so maybe he would have to pay attention to this boy, after all.

Edward paced quickly towards the boy, using his superior size and broader stature to good effect as intimidation tools; the brief instant in which fear flashed across the boy's face told him as much. But then the boy steeled himself and put his weight on the balls of his feet before he rocked forward to meet Edward.

Edward blocked the boy's initial slash with his right cutlass, and parried the second, easily dodging the slash the boy took at his injured side with the dagger. Edward parried twice more before he took his own shot at hurting the boy, but if nothing else, he proved to be an agile opponent. He dodged Edward's swing, blurring out of Edward's line of sight to his right. Startled, Edward spun to meet his opponent, only to stagger forwards, gasping, as the boy drove the guard of his cutlass into the wound in Edward's side. Edward slashed out wildly with his own blade to put some distance between them, and the boy obligingly leaped backward, features a mask of determination.

Gasping through the pain, Edward narrowed his eyes at the boy. How had he managed to get around Edward's back so quickly? He was good; not just tricky, but  _fast,_  and ruthless to boot. The boy was not yet large enough to be completely brutal, like Edward tended to be, but if he was sneaky enough to get hits in on  _Edward..._

He would have to be cautious and end this quickly.

The boy lunged at Edward again. Edward quickly tossed his cutlass to his left hand, blocked the strike, and, ejecting the Hidden Blade on his right wrist, jabbed the knife forward.

The blade met linen, pierced through it, and slid home with a squelch in the boy's belly.

The boy froze. His green eyes went wide, expression one of shock. Then it crumpled into a grimace of pain, and he slumped forward against Edward. The boy's cutlass and dagger clattered to the deck; his fingers clawed weakly at Edward's shoulders as he gasped for air through what Edward realized must be a rather all-consuming pain. It was a little sad, really. He had managed to wound Edward three times. This boy had held the potential to be a great fighter, if he had only not crossed Edward's warpath. It was a shame that he would have to die.

The battle around them had died out; the crew and prisoners watched silently as Edward caught the wounded boy, supporting him as he retracted his Hidden Blade. A slim chest pressed against his as the boy wheezed against Edward's shoulder.

Edward froze. A chill ran through him and his eyes went wide.

He felt  _breasts._

" _Cach!"_  he swore under his breath, dropping his own cutlass and catching the boy- no,  _girl-_ before she could let go and hit the deck. Kneeling, he took her in his arms and supported her as she looked up at him, true fear finally showing itself in her tear-bright green eyes. Her head fell back; her hat fell off at the motion, sending short, horse-tailed auburn hair tumbling down to the deck below her head.

_This_  was not something he had been expecting.  _At all._  For a woman to be on board a pirate or privateering ship was unheard of. It was unheard of for a woman to be on board a ship in the  _Navy._  In fact, the only times Edward  _had_  heard of women on ships had been in regards to passenger ships.

Edward swallowed. Now he realized why she had fought so hard. She had known that if he and his crew found her out during capture, she might suffer a horrible fate. He was sure she had heard the tales of pirate brutality, of men who had been too long without female company and who were willing and determined to take what they could get no matter how much the women struggled. No small wonder that she had been so desperate and determined not to surrender, not to let him win.

Edward  _refused_  to let her die and confirm her fears. But damn it, he already had one wounded lubber on board! He did not need another!

The woman coughed. Edward growled something incoherent, and hoisted her into his arms. She was surprisingly light. As he turned to take in the sight of his men rounding up the rest of the schooner's crew, he spotted Gregson watching him. Edward pursed his lips.

"Gregson!" he called. "How many wounded?"

"Two, with flesh wounds," Gregson replied immediately. "One dead. 'e fell between the ships during the boarding. Cracked 'is 'ead open on the 'ull on the way down." He eyed Edward, taking in the body in his arms and the blood slowly dripping down his leather armor. "Ye should probably get that looked at, sir."

Edward blinked, and then realized what Gregson was referring to. In his shock, he had almost forgotten about his own flesh wound. Slowly, he nodded.

"Get our wounded on board. How many of theirs are left alive?"

"Merely the nine you see 'ere." Gregson came over to help Edward shift the woman to the  _Jackdaw._  "All the others are dead save that one, an' I reckon 'e's not long for this world."

Edward gritted his teeth.

"We'll see about that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are from "Dacw 'Nghariad," which is a traditional Welsh song.
> 
> **Welsh Translations:**  
>  **Fwcar** \- Fucker  
>  **Cach** \- Shit
> 
> **Spanish Translations:**  
>  **¡Muere, cabron!** \- Die, bastard!  
>  **¡Vas al infierno y chupa un pene, cabronazo!** \- Go to hell and suck a dick, motherfucker!
> 
> **Pirate Slang:**  
>  **Hornswoggler** \- A cheat or a liar


	4. Chapter 3: Distrust.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The _Jackdaw_ gains a few new crewmembers and a fiddler, and Edward and Connor have the first of many heart-to-hearts.

_**  
Chapter 3: Distrust.**   
_

_"That's far-fetched, even for someone as unbelievable as you."_

_June 17, 1715._

  
Edward Kenway stared intently at the unconscious form on the cot in the surgeon's cabin, all but willing her to wake up. So far, the girl who had attacked him aboard the schooner earlier that day had lived through having her wound tended, but she had lost a lot of blood in the process. Connor was sitting in the chair beside the cot, arms cradling his wounded stomach, chin lowered to his chest as he dozed. The colored man was still pale, but he could at least move, by now. Frankly, Edward was amazed by how quickly the man was healing. The only person whom he had ever known to heal that fast was himself.  
  
Either Connor was a fast healer, or he was just very good at hiding his pain. Edward did not know which. At any rate, the man had been on his feet when Edward had brought the girl down to the surgeon's cabin; Connor had been unsteady at best, but he had had a sword in hand and had been standing in the middle of the room. He had nearly attacked Edward when the paler man had entered before he had realized who he was. Then he had lowered his blade and stepped aside, allowing Edward to enter the room and lay the girl out on the surgeon's table.  
  
It had taken Gibbs all of three seconds' examination to reveal that Edward had somehow managed to not hit any of the girl's vital organs, but that she was malnourished for her height and build.  
  
"'e should be at least a dozen pounds 'eavier," Gibbs had commented, shaking his head with displeasure. "'S why 'e took the 'it so badly. 'e simply just don't 'ave the blood to bleed. I kin stitch 'im up, but th' rest is up to 'im."  
  
Edward had helped hold her down as Gibbs had disinfected the wound with spirits from his stores, and then he had done the same as the surgeon stitched up the ugly wound and bound the girl's stomach tightly with a bandage. The force of the blow had apparently cracked one of her lower ribs. After all that had been finished, they had transferred her to the cot, Connor had shakily taken the chair to watch over her, and Edward had gone back on deck to retrieve the other two wounded men and to start getting things moving.  
  
Gregson, bless him, was a good sailor and a better quartermaster. He had already begun organizing the looting of the schooner when Edward had reappeared on deck, and had begun the process of loading its cargo and their prisoners onto the  _Jackdaw._  Edward had been pleased to hear that he had also started to take stock of everything they had retrieved; he had also been pleased when Gibbs, who was the  _Jackdaw's_  carpenter in addition to its surgeon, had pronounced the schooner's hull to still be seaworthy. That meant that they could sell her for a decent price.  
  
The bodies of the men they had killed had been stripped of all finery, and then had been buried at sea, sewn up in their hammocks. It had been a solemn job that had taken the better part of two hours while Gibbs took the two wounded crewmembers below to stitch up their cuts. Edward had discovered that one of them, a powder monkey barely out of his teens who went by the name of Davy McKennitt, had nearly lost an eye. The other, a swarthy old mate named Thackary "Toothless" Locksley, had taken a nasty-looking gash to the underside of his forearm that had been less severe than it had appeared. By the time that Edward had gone down below two hours after the battle, everything had been efficiently taken care of, and all was ship shape and Bristol fashion; that was, ready to sail with all equipment stowed securely.  
  
Gregson had taken the helm, and along with their navigator, LeMarque, they had set a heading for Havana. Edward had made sure they were all right with navigating for a while. Then he had gone below to finally have his own wound looked at, which brought him to the current moment.  
  
"Captain?" Edward blinked as Gibbs's voice entered his ears again, and turned to him. Gibbs gestured to Edward's leather armor, and to the bloodsoaked clothing beneath it. "You gonna let me tend tha', now?"  
  
Edward shook himself and nodded absently, reaching down to begin undoing the buckles on his clothing. "Yeah. Yeah, let's get this done."  
  
It took him all of two minutes to strip out of his armor, though his wound pulled rather painfully when he tried to lift his left arm, and the blood had crusted into the fabric around the wound, as well, more or less sealing the cotton to his skin. His bandolier, belt, and leather armor clunked to the ground along with his pistols and cutlasses. He left his bracers on, and his Hidden Blades with them. Still, as he started untying his shirt with one hand, the other working on untucking it from his trousers, he realized that he was feeling a little woozy.  
  
Maybe he had lost more blood than he had thought.  
  
Gibbs came over with a bottle of rum and his suturing tools, eyeing the way Edward's shirt had been stained half-red all the way down to his waist.  
  
"Looks bad, Captain," he commented. Edward sighed and rolled his shoulders, taking the bottle of rum from the surgeon and downing a few gulps of it. After he had drunk a good amount, he lowered the bottle again, blowing out a breath.  
  
"It's stuck in the wound," he said. "The shirt."  
  
Gibbs shook his head, and handed Edward a rag soaked with alcohol. "'old this on it fer a few minutes, then. After that, we'll pull it off."  
  
Edward did as he was told. The alcohol burned in the wound the instant it touched his side, but aside from a slight wince, Edward did not react. Gibbs bustled about, cleaning up the messes from the other people he had tended, and from the damage that the battle with the schooner had worked on the  _Jackdaw._  Edward was pleased that his ship was not terribly damaged, but she had sustained a few holes in her hull that Gibbs would have to tend to, later.  
  
Within minutes, lulled by the  _Jackdaw's_  gentle sway and the large amount of rum he had imbibed in such a short time, Edward found himself dozing slightly, though the sharp bite of the cloth over his wound kept him aware enough that he did not lose sense of what was going on around him. It was only when Gibbs shook him that Edward blinked himself awake again. He shook himself, and gingerly pulled the alcohol-soaked cloth away from the wound, finding it to be stained with his blood. His shirt, however, had mostly come unstuck.  
  
It only took Edward a second to set aside the cloth and begin to gingerly pull the shirt out of his wound. It still caught painfully in some places, but it at least was not totally sealed to his skin, anymore. He hissed slightly as it pulled at a particularly ragged edge of skin. Then it popped free with a violent stinging sensation. Edward grunted. He let it go and took another swig from the bottle of rum before continuing.  
  
A minute later, he finished, and squirmed out of the shirt, tossing it to the floor as he lifted the bottle to his lips again, trying not to think about the process that would soon begin under Gibbs's skilled hands.  
  
Edward  _hated_  needles.  
  
He was distracted enough that he barely noticed the feeling of Gibbs beginning to suture closed the gash over his ribs. He only noticed once he came up for a breath of air and found Gibbs hovering under his upraised arm, stitching quietly. Edward watched with grim fascination for a moment. Then he sighed and went back to his drinking.  
  
By the time Gibbs had finished, Edward had gotten himself quite well on the way to being inebriated. The surgeon just shook his head as Edward allowed him to bandage his chest, and took his ruined shirt and other clothing from him when Gibbs offered it to him. The captain, for his part, just gave a soft chuckle at the sight, feeling a little more woozy than before.  
  
"Strange time fer this t' happen, innit?" Edward asked, barely realizing that his words were beginning to slur. Strange; normally, he would be able to tolerate twice as much alcohol as he had already consumed and not begin to slur his words. He supposed it was the fault of the blood loss.  
  
Gibbs shook his head, rounded Edward, and pulled the captain's right arm across his shoulders, hoisting him to his feet. Edward gave an unsteady groan and wobbled uncertainly for a second. Then he got his balance again, for the time being, and Gibbs walked him over to the ladder that led up to the weather deck.  
  
"A'right, up you go, Captain," Gibbs commented, helping Edward clumsily climb up the rungs. Edward, for his part, managed to keep his balance fairly well. It was strange, though, that he had become inebriated so quickly.  
  
Once they arrived topside, Gibbs walked Edward across the deck to his cabin, ignoring the knowing glances of the crew. Within moments, they were ensconced in the shadowy interior of the room. Gibbs settled Edward on the side of his cot. Taking the bottle from him, he helped Edward lie down on his back, and then he left Edward alone. Edward sighed as soon as Gibbs was gone, carelessly tossing his gear and soiled robes and shirt away from him before he raised a hand and settled it over his eyes.  
  
 _Cach,_  his head was spinning.

* * *

_June 19, 1715._

  
Connor stared at Edward as the fairer man allowed Gibbs to examine his wound. For the most part, it seemed as though the captain was sober, though Connor strongly suspected that he had been drinking rather heavily since the battle two days ago. Connor had to admit, for being perpetually inebriated, the man seemed to hold his liquor well. At the moment, the only way he could tell that Edward had been drinking was the slight dilation of the man's eyes and the relaxed way he sat as Gibbs probed the sutured wound in his side.  
  
"Well," Gibbs commented after a moment. "No infection, though I wouldn't count it out just yet, Captain. These types o' wounds can be tricky, what wit' them bein' so close to the 'eart an' all."  
  
Edward sighed impatiently, ocean-blue gaze darting briefly in the general direction of the door. Connor watched his grandfather shy continually away from the surgeon's probing hands, watched the way he eyed the saws on the walls, and realized that Edward must have hated being in the surgeon's cabin. The Native man wondered what had happened in the past to make Edward so wary of the place.  
  
"So?" Edward questioned, fidgeting.  
  
"So, take it easy with that arm 'til it 'eals up," Gibbs replied pointedly. "Means no climbin', Captain, an' no more fightin' than you 'ave to do."  
  
Edward grumbled something under his breath, but nodded and pulled his shirt back on after Gibbs bandaged the wound again. When the captain looked over at Connor, Connor met his gaze unflinchingly. His wound may have taken much of his strength from him, but Connor would not be intimidated by a man who was probably a year or so his junior.  
  
"What is it?" he asked, and Edward frowned in return.  
  
"I've been meaning to have a word with you," he stated. "About what you told me, and didn't tell me, the last time we spoke."  
  
Connor blinked. He had almost no recollection of that conversation; the most he remembered was pain and throwing up and telling Edward his true name. "What did I not tell you?"  
  
"Your last name, for one thing," Edward replied, frowning sternly. When Connor simply blinked, still having no recollection of that half of the conversation, Edward's frown increased slightly. "What? You don't remember?"  
  
"No," Connor answered, honestly bewildered. "I have no recollection of anything past telling you my name, though since you have been calling me Connor, I must have said other things."  
  
Edward stared at him a second longer before his lips quirked in a smile and he let loose a chuckle.  
  
"Shall we take this conversation elsewhere?" he asked, gesturing to the door as he pulled his shirt back on. "You've been here for the past week. Must be rather boring."  
  
Connor frowned slightly, but he could not deny the statement.  
  
"It has been somewhat..." He cast around for the proper English word to use. It took him a second. "Dull."  
  
Edward gave another chuckle. Then he led the way out of the cabin and up onto the deck, calling greetings to the rest of the crew as he went. Connor observed the interactions, marveling at the level of camaraderie Edward displayed with the men. It was a deeper level of friendliness than he shared with his own crew, though there was still a clear deference to Edward that denoted his rank amongst them. As Edward led Connor towards the bow of the ship, Connor took a deep breath, savoring the freshness of the sea air. He had been cooped up belowdecks for too long; he had missed the feeling  of the wind on his skin. To taste the breeze again was to taste life itself.  
  
"So?" Edward asked as soon as they had arrived at the forward gunwale. Connor sighed contentedly, leaning against the railing, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. The sun was warm on his face.  
  
"So, what?" Connor countered lightly. "I do not know what you are thinking, so I cannot answer your question, since I do not know what you are asking of me."  
  
He heard Edward sigh.  
  
"So, what's your story?" he asked. "How'd you end up in the sea with a dagger sticking out of your belly? And while you're at it, what the hell is your last name?"  
  
Connor did not reply for a long moment. He was enjoying the sunlight and feeling of freedom too much. When he finally turned to Edward, he scanned the other man's features ponderously for a long moment, debating inwardly.  
  
Could he trust his grandfather? Could he trust him with the secret of how he had come to be in this time? Could he trust him with the secrets of his own life?  
  
"Can I trust you?"  
  
Edward blinked at the frank question. "What kind of question is that?"  
  
Connor's direct stare did not waver. "Can I trust you?"  
  
Edward's expression grew solemn for a long moment, and Connor knew that the other man was waging his own inner battles. He wondered what it was, aside from the life of a pirate, that had made Edward as reluctant to trust others as Connor was. When Edward's ocean-blue gaze finally met Connor's tawny one again a moment later, Connor could see the resignation there.  
  
"No." Edward looked away, out over the bowsprit to the rolling waves beyond. "No, you can't. Can't trust a pirate, after all. We'll fuck each other over in a heartbeat, let alone a lad as uptight as you seem to be."  
  
Connor studied Edward for a second longer.  
  
"What about another Assassin?" he finally questioned, and watched the way Edward's features tightened. "Can I trust one of my Brothers to aid me in my time of need?"  
  
"I already have, you cur!" Edward snapped, turning to glare at Connor. Connor could tell that the other man's patience had reached an end. "An' I don't bloody well need to expend time and effort in helping someone I don't even know!"  
  
"But you already have," Connor reminded the captain calmly. "You did not have to retrieve me as you did. You did not have to bring me to your surgeon for treatment. You did not have to save my life. Yet you did."  
  
"And I'm beginnin' to wonder if that wasn't a mistake!" Edward snarled. "I should've left you to the Locker."  
  
"And miss out on your answers?" Connor watched as Edward pulled a face at the accurate remark against his character. "You are a man who likes to have answers. If you had killed me, you would not have gotten those answers. Therefore, I am no use to you dead."  
  
Edward snorted, shaking his head as he faced forward again.  
  
"I'm beginning to wonder what use you are to me  _alive,"_  he grumbled. They were silent a moment. Then he cast Connor a sidelong glance. "What's so important that you trust me, anyway?"  
  
Connor shook his head. "I need to know if I  _can_  trust you, first. Can you keep a secret from all those around you?"  
  
Edward snorted again. "Lad, I don't know if you've noticed, but we're out in the open, here. It's not the place to be divulging secrets."  
  
"Well?"  
  
A muscle jumped in Edward's jaw. For a moment, he would not look at Connor. However, Connor saw it when the other man's curiosity won out over his pride.  
  
"Fine, you can trust me," Edward muttered finally. "Insofar as you realize that I may end up fucking you over, later, anyway."  
  
Connor cracked a small smile.  
  
"I doubt it," he murmured. Then he turned to his grandfather again. "That dagger that you pulled out of me. Do you still have it?"  
  
Edward seemed to sense that Connor was more or less past the "trust" issue. Intrigued, he turned to regard the dark man.  
  
"In my cabin, yes." He frowned at Connor. "Why?"  
  
Connor drew a deep breath. Please, Creator, let his trust not be misplaced.  
  
"It is a powerful artifact, from what I understand," he explained quietly. Edward's look of curiosity intensified, and he shuffled slightly closer to Connor, the better for them to converse without being overheard. "I do not know much about it, but from what I have gathered, it holds power over time, itself."  
  
There was a long moment of silence. Then Edward's eyebrows shot upward, and he barked an incredulous laugh, glancing away before he looked back to Connor's impassive features.  
  
"You're shittin' me." Edward chuckled again. "There's nothing that could control  _time,_  nothin' but God Himself, and even He doesn't fuck with that."  
  
When Connor merely stared at him, however, Edward slowly began to sober, realizing that Connor was not joking.  
  
"Well, how's it work, then?" the blond man asked incredulously. "You say some magic words, rub the hilt a bit, and then, poof! a genie whisks you away to a different time? When are you supposed to be from, then? The Renaissance? The Crusades? Have you met Altaïr and Ezio, yet, or are you new to the whole business?"  
  
Connor looked away, brow furrowing slightly.  
  
"I do not know how it works," he admitted. "I, myself, have had no experience with this artifact. The only one I have is the ring I wear. It creates a shield that deflects most metals. It is... useful, for one in a profession such as ours." He held up his right hand, and showed Edward the Shard of Eden that was wrapped around his forefinger, and then he lowered it again to rest upon the gunwale. "I was sent to retrieve the dagger after it was stolen from its master. However, there was a terrible storm that day. The ship carrying it capsized, and I had to swim down and get it before it sank beyond reach."  
  
He paused, remembering the gales that had made the  _Aquila_  groan so horribly. "I was successful in retrieving the dagger. However, as I was swimming out of the captain's cabin, a surge of water knocked me back, and slammed the door closed. My arm, the one holding the dagger, was in the way. The wave and door forced it down into my stomach. There was a flash of gold, and then, as things began to go black, I saw dark shapes moving around me. One of them looked like a man."  
  
Edward huffed, still trying to wrap his head around the whole situation.  
  
"That would be me," he stated. "I was diving for treasure when I came across you. Happenstance, as it were."  
  
"Regardless of whether it was chance or fate that brought me here, I need your help in figuring out a way to get back," Connor stated, looking over at Edward again. "Preferably as soon as possible."  
  
Edward shook his head, chuckling darkly.  
  
"No." Still laughing, he turned away. "No. You're out of your bleeding mind."  
  
Connor's gaze did not waver.  
  
"Then why did you keep the dagger instead of giving it back to me as soon as I was strong enough to talk?"  
  
He saw it when Edward paused, though it was obvious that the other man was still in denial.  
  
"You know that what I have told you is true," Connor stated. "If you had truly felt nothing, you would have just left the dagger with my other things. Instead, you took it, and still keep it in your cabin, within your sight."  
  
"Damn it!" Edward swore, and turned a glare on Connor. "I felt nothing, I feel nothing, and there is no way you could be from a different time, whenever the hell that time may be." He turned away and headed towards the helm. "I wouldn't believe you even if I was drunk."  
  
Connor stoically watched him go, trying not to feel the dismay that threatened to begin gnawing at his stomach. He would have to find some way to convince Edward that he was telling the truth.  
  
Creator help him.

* * *

 

_June 21, 1715._

Awakening was a slow, tedious thing, and one she had hated with a passion since her first day at sea. Since the beginning of her seafaring life, mornings had always been her least favorite part of the day, mostly because her body never let her sleep past sunrise, and even more so because mornings at sea equated yet another long, equally tedious day of chores and boredom. When she had joined up in the hopes of bettering her prospects and staying with her brother, she had not expected to feel just as trapped on a ship as she had at home.  
  
Still, awakening was something that she was required to do for the sake of her profession. She was nothing if not professional.  
  
Green eyes cracked open to peer at her surroundings.  
  
She was in an unfamiliar place, though it was easy to see that she was in a surgeon's cabin of some type. He probably doubled as the ship's carpenter, if the large number of saws on the walls was any indication. She could see various other implements there, as well, however: needles, catgut, and spirits for washing wounds, among other things. Judging by the feeling of bandages around her middle and the tight pain of her wound, as well as the fact that she was still alive, it seemed as though the man who had captured her had some purpose for her. She wondered if he had realized that she was a woman.  
  
The thought chilled her. Stories of the things that pirates did to women they captured were numerous and terrifying; suicide would be a blessing compared to being used by a crew that had been too long without shore leave. She would bite through her own tongue and bleed to death before she allowed them the satisfaction of using her for their own pleasure.  
  
Grimacing, she levered herself up into a sitting position, finding that she was still fully clothed. The fabric itself was stiff with her blood; it reeked after however long it was that she had been unconscious. Slowly levering her legs over the side of the cot, she paused to overcome the spinning in her head, and then she pushed herself to her feet. Her stomach exploded in pain at the motion. Groaning, she wrapped her arm around it and pushed on, stumbling over to the bloodstained surgeon's table in the middle of the cabin. She caught herself on it for a moment, gasping. Then she pushed herself towards the one side of the cabin that did not have a wall, leading towards the hold. She determinedly ignored the stares of the few crewmembers who were down below. Her only goal was to get out in the open, see if she could not find some way to get away from these _pirates._  
  
There was the ladder, highlighted by a pool of bright sunlight. If only she could get up there...  
  
A dark shadow blotted out the light.  
  
She gasped in dismay and stumbled around to the closest hiding spot, among the piles of cargo that she recognized as being from the schooner that she had just been captured from. For just a second, she spared a piteous thought for the crew of that ship. Then she brushed it away and hunkered down behind a few barrels, quieting her breathing and trying to clear her head.  
  
"...wonder if our guest is awake, yet." The voice was masculine, and she was slightly startled to realize that he was speaking English. It had been so, so long since she had heard that language... But that did not make him any more trustworthy than a rabid cur on the street.  
  
"He's been unconscious for a few days, already," stated a new voice. This one had a strange accent to his words, one that she did not recognize at all. The words were slow and ponderous, as well, like English was not his first language. Most likely, it was not. "Should he not be waking, soon?"  
  
"Gibbs says that with the amount of blood he lost, it's a miracle he didn't die." The first voice had paused, probably to let his eyes adjust to the hold's darkness. A pair of soft, hollow thumps let her know that the second voice had reached the bottom of the ladder, as well. She held her breath. Footsteps. The voices faded away slowly. "Still, I have to wonder what a brat like that was doing on a privateer ship..."  
  
She peeked around the barrel, and then snuck out, bare feet cat-quiet on the boards. It was as she reached up to pull herself up the ladder that her wound pulled painfully, and she realized that this was going to be much more difficult than she had thought. Still, she was not about to give her attention to these pirates, let alone surrender her modesty, identity, or well-being to them. She would rather die, first.  
  
Grinding her teeth, she pulled herself up the ladder as quickly as she was able. It took some effort and quite a bit of pain before she made it to the top, but finally, she stood, blinking, in the bright Caribbean sunlight, and aside from the fire in her belly, she felt freer than she had in some time. With the sun on her face and the wind threading its fingers through her hair, she took a deep breath and relished the favorable weather for just a second. Then she blinked open her eyes again, squinting around the deck.  
  
"Haul on the bowline, the bonny ship's a rollin'! Haul on the bowline, the bowline haul!"  
  
The familiar sound of a shanty she had heard every day during her youth met her ears, and she nearly wept with the joy of it before she remembered where she was. All around her, pirates were going about the daily tasks of a ship, hauling in lines, sanding and swabbing the deck, navigating and steering, running up the sails and rigging, making what repairs were necessary, and, where they were not doing chores, making as merry as they could. A group of men were sitting over towards the starboard side of the ship, laughing and clapping as another of their members played a violin very poorly. She took a second look when she caught sight of the flamelike pattern on the underside of the instrument.  
  
Damn it! That was  _hers!_  
  
But her violin was  _not_  worth getting found out over. It had been a miracle that her other crew had remained ignorant of her gender the entire time she had been on that ship, and in her wounded state, she had no doubt that, if one of them decided to pick a fight because she played the violin better than he did, that she would be found out or killed very quickly.  
  
Still, the way that sailor was treating  _her_  favorite instrument...  
  
A particularly shrill note was drawn in a painful screech from the fine catgut e-string. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she found herself scowling furiously. How  _dare_  he? She could not let this go on. Grinding her teeth, she stomped over to the group as much as her wound would allow her to, and tapped the unfortunate young man on the shoulder. He turned to face her, curiosity on his face. She raised an incredulous eyebrow and pointed to the violin. Then she raised her hand, palm-up, and curled her fingers into her palm in a "give me" motion.  
  
Confused, the young man recoiled from her for an instant. She gave him a look that asked if he really wanted to try her, and then held out her left hand, pointing to the calluses on her fingertips. For a second, he was confused. Then, when she mimed playing a violin, his expression lit up in understanding, and he handed the instrument over to her with a sheepish grin, taking a seat beside his fellows.  
  
She sighed in relief, running her hands over the deep red of the body, caressing every familiar scratch and dent and the inscription on the back, savoring the smell of rosin and the sleekness of the well-worn ebony fingerboard. Raising it to her shoulder, she took a moment to tune it. The sailors winced at the horrible sounds, but she simply scowled as she realized how out of tune it had gotten. It only took her a moment or two to put it right again. By that time, the cringes had faded into looks of realization, and she gave them a pointed glare.  
  
Finally, she took a seat on the gunwale nearby and, tightening up the bow just a little, she set horsehair to catgut and drew out the first long note of a popular jig.  
  
Her audience cheered and clapped as they realized that they had gained a skilled player, and soon, a pair of them had even stood up to dance. She chuckled despite herself, forgetting her wariness in the face of these men's joy, and played all the harder through the second round of the song before finishing with a flourish and a grin.  
  
When the fiddle finally fell silent, there was a round of applause and whistling, and, to her surprise, she had to hurriedly trade the bow to her left hand as one of the men came up and jovially shook her hand.  
  
"Thank ye!" he exclaimed. "We've been listenin' ta Joshamee's playin' all day, an' Lord knows 'e can' play ta save 'is life!"  
  
As the rest of the crowd laughed at the jibe, she blinked at the onrush of English words, brain taking a moment to process them.  
  
"Um..." Clearing her throat, she cast around for words, suddenly remembering where she was, and then gave the man a sheepish look, forcing her voice into a lower register as she asked,  _"¿Hable más despacio, por favor?"_  
  
The men all froze, staring at her as though she had grown another head. She blinked, and then realized she had spoken in Spanish. Taking a deep breath, she winced as her wound pulled, aggravated by all the excitement, and covered it with her palm as she gave the man a sheepish grin.  
  
 _"Lo siento,"_  she stated, voice still deepened. "I am... sorry."  
  
The man blinked. Then, he opened his mouth to speak.  
  
"There you are!" The voice drew all their attention to the ladder that led below, and she found herself squinting against the glare of the sunlight shining off of blond hair. She blinked again, and the bright blur resolved itself into the face of the man whom she had fought on the schooner. His expression was a mask of exasperation as he pulled himself up onto the deck. "You know, most people don't just get up and run off after they've been stabbed in the guts."  
  
She frowned at him and staggered to her feet, backing cautiously away from him. He approached her, stride confident, and she kept backing up. Finally, she hit the wall beside what was, presumably, the captain's cabin. Her heart began to pound as he closed in on her, and she glanced around frantically for a second before she realized that she could not escape him, not in her current state, and not in the middle of the ocean.  
  
He was nearly upon her.  
  
 _"¡No te acerques!"_  
  
Desperate, she leveled the violin bow at his chest, holding it as she would hold a rapier, and he stopped short, the head of the bow pressing into the fabric of his loose, white shirt. The corners of his lips twitched.  
  
"Do you speak any English?" he asked, lifting an amused brow. She studied him for a long moment, uncertain of whether he was toying with her or not. He raised his hands, palms upwards, showing her that he was unarmed. However, she was startled to see the glint of metal on the undersides of his wrists, and her eyes flicked back up to his, surprised.  
  
 _"¿Tu eres un asesino?"_  she questioned softly, slowly lowering the bow from his chest as she frowned at him in confusion.  _"Pero tu eres un pirata. ¿Cómo?"_  
  
He sighed, and rolled his eyes.  
  
"Lad, I don't speak Spanish," he stated, and she realized with a jolt that she had been speaking Spanish again. She shook herself, and closed her eyes, making a difficult mental shift from Spanish back to her second language.  
  
She opened her eyes again, and met his ocean-blue gaze.  
  
"You are a pirate," she stated quietly, watching as he blinked, golden eyebrows shooting upwards. "How can you serve yourself and still profess to be an Assassin?"  
  
He frowned at the question, eyes flashing. His voice was a low growl when next he spoke. "That is not something you should go shouting to the rooftops. I have kept your secret, and I would appreciate it if my own privacy were mine to keep."  
  
She swallowed, realizing the danger she into which had just unwittingly put herself.  
  
"Sorry," she replied. "I shall remember it."  
  
He snorted. "As well you should."  
  
She inhaled shakily, slowly realizing that she had not been found out. How was it possible? How had he kept her secret from the surgeon and the rest of the crew?  
  
"Who are you?" she asked quietly, though her voice held a note of steel in it that she had perfected long ago. "I battled you on my ship, and yet you saved my life after you stabbed me. Why?"  
  
He huffed dismissively.  
  
"That's none of your concern," he groused. "Point is, I pulled you over here, saved your life, and haven't killed you yet. What's your name, anyway?"  
  
She eyed him warily.  
  
"Why?" she asked, clearing her throat when her voice cracked back to its higher, more natural register for an instant. He rolled his eyes.  
  
"So I don't have to keep calling you 'Lad' all the time." He gave her a glare of annoyance. "Now, answer me."  
  
She swallowed.  
  
"Drystan."  
  
The man blinked, recoiling slightly. "But that's a Welsh name."  
  
"I am Welsh." She cleared her throat again. "My ship was captured by those Spaniards two years ago." Seeing his suspicious look, she shifted uncomfortably. "They spared me because I speak multiple languages. The rest of my crew were not so fortunate."  
  
'Drystan' stared at the blond man as he frowned at her. She could all but see the gears in his head turning.  
  
"He speaks the truth!" The familiar, accented voice startled her into lowering the bow, and her gaze darted over to her right, landing upon a welcome face.  
  
"Estevan!" she exclaimed, grinning.  _"¡Estás vivo!"_  
  
 _"Sí, hermanito, y tu también,"_  he replied, coming over to stand beside her. His dark eyes landed on the strange man's, and Estevan took a position slightly in front of her, between her and her aggressor, but without being threatening. "He tells the truth. We killed the captain and first mate of the  _Assurance,_  but  _hermanito_  spoke for the rest of the crew, and our captain decided to spare them because of his efforts."  
  
The blond man stared at Estevan for a moment. Estevan, for his part, turned to 'Drystan' and gestured to the other man.  
  
"This is  _el capitán_  of this ship,  _Eduardo_  Kenway," Estevan explained, and 'Drystan' looked back over to the captain in question. "We have been taken as part of the crew for this ship, the  _Jackdaw._  Things are not so bad, here,  _hermanito."_  
  
'Drystan' turned her stare back on Estevan, incredulous, before she finally turned her stare back to the captain, Edward.  
  
"Captain Kenway," she mused thoughtfully, scanning his face. "I think you and I need to speak privately, if you have a moment."  
  
Edward nodded, and gestured to the cabin behind her. "We can speak in there."  
  
She nodded gratefully, and he opened the door, leading the way. She followed, closing it behind her. As soon as they were alone, she sighed wearily, the pain in her side flooding back now that she was away from the crew. Edward gestured to a desk in the middle of the room. 'Drystan' took a seat in the chair without much grace, too exhausted to stand on decorum.  
  
"I assume you're feeling better, seeing as you're up and moving," Edward observed, going over to a cabinet against the wall. She watched as he drew out a bottle of some kind of alcohol and, popping the cork out, poured a bit into a tin cup before taking a swig straight out of the bottle. The cup, he handed to her.  
  
"Thanks," she said quietly, sipping the drink and sighing in relief. She would have taken it faster, but she knew that it would affect her more quickly after the blood loss, and she had no desire to put herself at this man's mercy, Assassin or not. "And no, I'm really not. But I don't want the crew to think me weak and try to take advantage of me."  
  
"Better to rest now than get sick," he reminded her, studying her as she took a slightly larger gulp of the rum in the cup. "Drinker, are we?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
He studied her a moment longer, and then came over to the desk, leaning against the side of it as he took another swig from his bottle. They were silent a moment, eyeing each other warily.  
  
"How do you know about the Assassins?" he asked at last. She sighed.  
  
"Mum died birthing me," she replied shortly. "Da was distant at best, stepmum didn't like me. I was mostly raised by my half-brother and our stable-hand, who is an Assassin."  
  
"And why was an Assassin working as a stable-hand?"  
  
She gave him an incredulous look. "I respected his privacy enough not to ask after the first time he told me he didn't want to talk about it."  
  
Edward snorted. "Well, at least tell me your real name."  
  
"Drystan."  
  
His light gaze sharpened into a glare.  
  
"Don't toy with me, girl," he growled. "I am not a patient man. What's your real name?"  
  
"Drystan." She returned his glare full-force. "You may be an Assassin, but you're also a pirate. Trusting you would be like spitting into the wind and expecting it  _not_  to come back and hit me in the face."  
  
They stared each other down for a long few moments, neither willing to give in. Eventually, however, the stalemate was broken by the sound of a knock on the door, and then the entrance of a tall man dressed in blue breeches and a loose, white shirt, with a red sash tied around his waist. What struck Drystan about him, however, was the stiff way he carried himself and the dark hue of his skin, eyes, and hair. If she was not mistaken, he was probably mulatto. Or maybe Spanish.  
  
He closed the door behind himself, glancing between the two of them with a slight frown.  
  
"I heard what she said on the deck," he said, by way of explanation. So he was the owner of the second voice she had heard when she was down below. Turning to her, he nodded. "I am Ratohnhaké:ton. You may call me Connor, if you wish."  
  
"Drystan," she returned, relaxing slightly. He nodded respectfully.  
  
"Miss Drystan," he began, and then froze when both she and Edward whirled on him. Connor cleared his throat awkwardly, holding his arms loosely at his sides. "Mister Gibbs wants to check your wound."  
  
"How do you know I'm a girl?" she growled, grip on the violin's bow tightening until the metal clip bit into her palm. Connor blinked.  
  
"I have changed your bandages for the past two days while Mister Gibbs was repairing the  _Jackdaw,"_  he explained. "I saw nothing, save the bottom edges of your bindings."  
  
"How many others know?" Drystan demanded. "How many have you told?"  
  
Connor frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "None. I am the only one save Captain Kenway who knows your gender."  
  
Drystan relaxed with a sigh of relief, knowing instinctively that she could trust this man. He carried himself with a proud air, but there had been nothing but honesty in his tone and words, at least as far as she could see.  
  
"Thank you," she murmured, and then raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you can understand why I don't want that information slipped to the crew."  
  
He inclined his head. "Of course. Now, if you will come see Mister Gibbs?"  
  
Drystan sighed, and levered herself to her feet, joining Connor at the door to the captain's cabin. Turning back to Edward, she met his sour look with one of her own.  
  
"Captain," she acknowledged him, and then she followed Connor out of the room to the deck, and then down below. Only once they were safely ensconced in the relative privacy of the surgeon's cabin did she turn to Connor with a curious look. "Why do you hold yourself so stiffly?"  
  
He gave a soft chuckle, and gestured to the surgeon's table in the middle of the room.  
  
"Sit there. Mister Gibbs will return, soon," he said. She did as told, her stare unwavering. "I am in a similar predicament to your own."  
  
Connor lifted the hem of his shirt, exposing a swath of heavy bandaging around his middle.  
  
"The captain pulled me out of the sea a week ago," Connor told her quietly. "I had a dagger in my belly and was drowning. He saved my life." He let the fabric drop again, and tucked it back into his sash. "Now, I am as much a guest here as you are."  
  
"A prisoner, you mean."  
  
"You are free to leave at any time, once we make port," Connor replied with a look that made her frown slightly. "It seems, however, that we are not the only ones on this ship who have secrets. Edward has his own, and is holding something of mine until I am well enough to have it back. I thought I would try to learn as much as possible before I leave. You would be wise to do the same."  
  
Drystan pondered that for a moment. Could she really trust these men? Sure, they had kept her gender a secret from the rest of the crew, to no benefit of their own, but for how long? How long would that secret serve them before they would sell it to the highest bidder, or the interrogator with the dullest knife? Connor, at least, seemed to be a man of honor, but there was no telling how he had come to be in the ocean as he had claimed. But still, of all the people on this ship, he seemed to be the most trustworthy.  
  
"Rhian."  
  
Connor blinked, turning back to her from where he had gone to fetch bandages in preparation for Mister Gibbs's use.  
  
"Excuse me?" he asked with a confused frown. She looked up at him, pondering.  
  
"My real name," she said. "Rhian Yates. But you can't tell anyone else."  
  
Connor smiled slightly, and nodded.  
  
"Connor. Connor Kenway. And you cannot tell, either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs are all from that time period, or were recorded shortly after (meaning that they were probably being sung/played plenty before they were written down).
> 
>  **Welsh Translations:  
> **  
>  Cach - Shit
> 
>  **Spanish Translations:  
> **  
>  ¿Hable másdespacio, por favor? - Speak more slowly, please?  
>  **Lo siento** \- I'm sorry.  
>  **¡No te acerques!** \- Don't come any closer!  
>  **¿Tu eres un asesino?** \- You're an Assassin?  
>  **Pero tu eres un pirata. ¿Cómo?** \- But you're a pirate. How?  
>  **¡Estás vivo!** \- You're alive!  
>  **Sí, hermanito, y tu también.** \- Yes, little brother, and you also.  
>  **Hermanito** \- Little brother  
>  **El capitán** \- The captain  
>  **Eduardo** \- Edward


	5. Chapter 4: Doldrums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Songs and dancing abound for a time before Edward's immaturity gets him into some trouble with Connor and Drystan.

_**  
Chapter 4: Doldrums.** _

_"Don't know where you come from, and I don't care. Just play the damned song, already."_

_June 23, 1715._

The air was  _hot._  That was all Edward could think about at the moment as he leaned heavily against the  _Jackdaw's_  wheel. They were a day and a half out from Havana, but it was just long enough to make the wait seem an eternity. And  _why_  were they not already in Havana, enjoying all the wine and women they could stand?

Because, frankly put, they had hit the doldrums.

Edward  _abhorred_  doldrums. He hated them even more than he hated needles. Hell, he hated doldrums  _almost_ as much as he hated being hungry, and that was truly saying something. Having grown up in poverty, without shoes and never knowing when his next meal would be, Edward hated feeling hungry more than anything in the world. For the doldrums to come in a close second was a true measure of his distaste.

He abhorred doldrums just as much as he abhorred boredom, Edward decided as he huffed absently, observing the men. Down below, most of the crew were lounging on the weather deck, fishing off the side, or drinking. Those who had not yet finished their chores were working to do so, most of which involved sanding and swabbing the deck. The low hum of conversation was a constant against the backdrop of the gentle rolling of the sea. Even the waves were quiet, today.

Edward, himself, had long since stripped out of his armor and robes, preferring to linger in his breeches and shirt rather than swelter in the heavier fabrics; at the current moment, he was also debating the potential benefits of simply removing his shirt, as well. He had even donned a hat instead of his usual hood. The tricorne felt almost strange after so long without it, but he was slowly getting used to it again. Sighing, he idly blew a stray strand of blond hair out of his eyes.

Holy Mother of God, he was  _bored_ out of his  _skull._

Maybe things would liven up, or a least cool off a bit, if he took off his shirt and scaled the mainmast… If nothing else, the crew might have a good laugh if he did a little acting. Or maybe they could start a mock-trial… No, no, that might not be good. The last time they had staged a trial, it had seemed so real that the poor bloke on the stand had gotten so fearful that he had drawn his sword and cut off the prosecutor's arm.  _That_ had been an interesting explanation to hear from those involved. At least they got a cook out of the deal…

Edward's attention wandered to the deck as a tricorne-crowned head poked itself out of the hole that led belowdecks. The person's hair was a deep, wavy auburn, their skin tanned from the sun. It was the girl who called herself Drystan. Edward frowned as she clambered up onto the deck, and then he realized that she was carrying the violin she had absconded with the other day. His lips curled despite himself. It seemed they were about to get some entertainment, finally.

Sure enough, the girl seated herself on a barrel beside one of the cannons, and, with a sharp whistle, she got the attention of everyone who was lounging on the deck.

Intrigued, Edward leaned a little harder against the helm. What was she doing?

"I hear tell you lubbers are all but dying from boredom!" she shouted, her voice in its rough, lower-than-natural register. A few of them perked up, and she grinned. "Now, I have a game to play, for anyone who's interested!"

 _That_  got everyone's attention as the whistle had not. Slowly, the crew gathered around her where she sat with the violin on her knee, curious. Grinning, Drystan held up the violin.

"I am going to play a song," she explained. "I am going to pick four of you, and you're each going to pair off and dance. Whichever pair dances the best gets to pick the next song, but afterwards, they have to sit down again. The losers have to sing for us, and  _I_ get to choose the song!"

Edward watched as grins spread across the crew's faces. But one man spoke up.

"An' what about when we get too hot or tired?" he asked. Edward thought his name might have been David. "What about when the game ends?"

"Why, then I'll play you a song I've been working on," Drystan replied with a small smile, "and you all can tell me if I should keep working on it or throw it out."

"And what if we don't like it?"

Drystan thought about it for a moment. Edward hoped the girl would not promise to do anything terribly physical, considering her state. There may be distrust between them, but he had no desire for her to kill herself in the process of entertaining the crew.

"Well, I suppose I'll just have to start teaching you how to swear at me in Spanish." Drystan grinned toothily. "Gibbs has ordered me not to do anything too strenuous, but I suppose some cussing lessons wouldn't hurt."

The sailors who had asked barked a pair of laughs and clapped each other on the backs. Drystan chuckled.

"Now, shall we?"

Edward watched, smiling, as the men backed away from her, forming a rough semi-circle around the spot. Drystan then pointed the tip of her bow at four men chosen seemingly at random from the crowd. They stood up and paired off, and then Drystan shouldered her instrument and began to play.

The song was a popular one, a jig that was often heard in the various pubs and taverns in port towns across the British territories, and one that most of the crew was familiar with. As the men laughed and danced, and their fellows jeered and clapped along with the music, Edward found himself chuckling, enjoying the familiar tune of "Drowsy Maggie." It was a lilting reel that lightened the hearts of everyone who heard it. Especially suitable for a day like today, when there was not so much as a cloud in the sky or a breeze on the sea, and when everyone was worried, to some extent, about whether or not these doldrums would last any length of time.

There came a familiar footstep from behind Edward, and he knew without looking that it was Gregson, come to report on their supplies.

"Well?" Edward asked quietly. He knew that they had been running low when they had captured the schooner several days ago; the fact that it had been a very successful raid would mean little if they began to starve before they could make it to port.

"We have three days, if we begin rationing immediately," Gregson reported softly. "Rum rations are holding steady, of course, but half the food is either stone-hard or rotted through."

"Right," Edward murmured, displeased but not overly worried just yet. "I will speak with the men about it as soon as possible, but let them have their fun, for now. There's hope yet that the wind may pick up."

As a round of cheers sounded from the deck, Edward turned his attention back to the crew. Drystan was grinning broadly. Edward was struck by how pretty she looked when she actually smiled; too bad she was such a brat, or he might consider working his way into her hammock some night. Frankly, he would prefer a whore in Havana to the harpy down on the deck, despite her skills with the violin. Hmm, a violinist… Edward absently wondered what else she could do with those dexterous fingers. Then he rolled his eyes, realizing what path his thoughts had taken him on, yet again. He  _needed_  some shore leave, desperately, and a whore or two along with it. He was getting a little randy.

And now, she was playing "Brian Boru's March." Wonderful.

"Oi, play something Welsh!" he shouted down to her over the sound of the crew's clapping and stomping. Drystan simply played a little louder, and a little faster, until finally, she finished with a flourish and the winning dancers bowed and grinned, breathless. Drystan, herself, was looking a little winded as she turned to face the captain.

"If the captain wishes the fiddler to play something to his liking, the captain must play the fiddler's game!" she called, raising her bow again. As she smirked and began to play the next requested song, Edward scowled down at her.

Insufferable, he thought.

"'E's a spitfire," Gregson observed, chuckling. Edward turned to the quartermaster to find that the man was smiling. "Better watch that 'un, or 'e'll put you in a bind, if ya know what I mean."

And he had the  _gall_  to  _wink_  at Edward when he said so.

"I'm not interested," Edward grumped, frowning as he turned back to his observations. "Not my type."

"Oh? Well, what type does the captain like?"

Edward snorted, lips quirking. "The  _female_  type."

Gregson burst out laughing, and walked away, heading down belowdecks as Connor finally emerged. Edward nodded to the dark man as they made eye contact. Connor briefly scanned the deck before he came over to Edward; his gaze lingered upon the merry gathering of pirates and musician, and Edward glimpsed a minuscule smile that twitched the other Assassin's lips for an instant before it vanished.

"What is this?" he asked as he reached Edward. Edward snorted and shook his head.

"Drystan came up a little bit ago to entertain the men," he replied quietly. He gave Connor a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. "Said a little birdie said the crew was bored."

Connor snorted, lips quirking slightly. "It was not me."

Edward gave the other man a knowing look. Connor, he had come to find, was the type of man who placed the needs of others far above his own. Edward was torn between admiring and scorning the trait. As a pirate, he thought it foolish to put the needs of everyone else above one's own needs. However, as an Assassin, he found it to be a worthy quality, and deserving of all the respect in the world.

It had been only too easy to figure out the more obvious facets of Connor's personality during the past two weeks, especially as the ship's close quarters forced them to be in each other's company near-constantly. The other man was friendly enough, if reserved, and tended to speak in a very blunt manner. He was honest almost to a fault. And he seemed to view the world around him in a very dark sort of way. His trust was difficult to earn. Edward occasionally wondered what had happened to the taller Assassin to make him the way he was; then, usually, he shrugged the thought off in favor of going about his business.

"What does this…  _game_  entail?" Connor's voice brought Edward back to the present, and the captain shook himself slightly, realizing that he had become lost in thought. Edward shrugged, and leaned on the  _Jackdaw's_  helm once again.

"Deal is, Drystan chooses two pairs of dancers, plays a song, and whomever dances better gets to sit down and choose the next song," Edward explained, talking quickly. He managed to get the entire thing out in one breath. "Losers have to sing a song of Drystan's choice. Once they get too bored or tired to continue, Drystan has offered to…  _exhibit_  an original composition for their enjoyment. They are to tell whether to keep hacking at it, or throw it out, and if they don't like it, Drystan has promised to teach them how to swear. In Spanish."

Connor was nodding, a sly grin curling the corners of his mouth.

"A smart game," he chuckled. "I can see how it will keep the men entertained without overexerting anybody."

Edward cast a sidelong glance at the other Assassin. "Astute."

"Creative." Connor returned the glance, one eyebrow raised. He lowered his voice. "Did I hear her shouting at you just a moment ago?"

Edward snorted.

"Indeed," he replied, rolling his eyes. "I said to play some Welsh music, and the response was that I had to join the game if I wanted any say in the choice."

Connor chuckled. "It seems almost as though the two of you do not like each other."

Edward raised both eyebrows, that time, when he turned to regard the darker man.

"Are you buggered insane?" he demanded. "That _boy_  is insufferable!"

Connor just chuckled again.

"Are you certain that your first impressions have not colored your opinion of her?" he asked. Edward opened his mouth to refute that, but then closed it again, frowning thoughtfully as he stared down at the group on the weather deck. Connor studied Edward for a moment. "Maybe you should take her challenge."

Edward scowled and rolled his eyes before he turned a glare on Connor.

"You think I should bow to Drystan's wishes?" he demanded.

Connor placed his hand on the  _Jackdaw's_  helm, and his tawny gaze was calm.

"I think that you should go attempt to enjoy yourself," he replied evenly. "The  _Jackdaw_  will go nowhere without a good wind or tide, and so now is the best time for you to go relax." He smiled slightly. "And, should you dance well enough, perhaps you can convince her to play some music that is more to your liking."

Edward could not deny that.

Sighing as he heard the losers of the latest round begin to sing a jolly verse of "Spanish Ladies," Edward rounded the gunwale, headed down the steps to the weather deck, and approached the party of merry-makers. Drystan, who had just begun to put bow to string for a round of "The Ballad of Captain Kidd," paused as she caught sight of him. For a second, she looked uncertain. Then an unholy grin spread across her face.

"Well, look who's come to join us!" she exclaimed.  _"Captain_ Edward Kenway, have you come to show us your dancing skills?"

Edward snorted, and crossed his arms. "I've come to dance so's you'll actually play something worth  _listening_  to."

Drystan's lip curled for a brief second. Then she waved her bow towards the center of the circle.

"You'll be dancing with Steven, then," she said in her rough, falsely-low voice. "An' don't think I'll be going easy on you just 'cause you're the captain. Get ready to dance your mercenary heart out."

As Edward stepped into the ring, he tried to ignore the whispers and chuckles of the crew around him, and tried to forget how long it had really been since he had actually  _danced_  with someone. Steven came over to Edward, and Edward tried to ignore the snickers that erupted when the crew observed the height difference between the two of them. At about six years younger than Edward was, Steven also stood about six inches or so shorter than Edward, and probably weighed about thirty pounds less. It was obvious who would be leading in this dance, and it would not be Steven.

Drystan set bow to string, and the pairs took their places. Edward took a deep breath, feeling the tug of his stitches in his side.

Two measures of a familiar tune later, they sprang into motion as the crew took up the song, clapping and hooting with glee and amusement as they watched their captain whirl around and around, arm in arm with his partner, feet flying, stomping when required, clapping when required. It soon came back to him, and to Edward, it felt almost as though he was back home in Bristol, dancing with the girls at the occasional social gathering. For a moment, his mind flashed back to Caroline's smiling face, and he remembered how happy she had been back then. Then he brought himself back to the present, and the moment passed.

"I was sick and nigh to death, as I sailed, as I sailed! I was sick and nigh to death, as I sailed. I was sick and nigh to death, and I vowed with every breath, To follow wisdom's ways, when I sailed!"

Edward would never admit it, but not only was his side beginning to hurt, but he was also beginning to have fun, against all odds. Maybe there was something to this game, after all.

Only too soon, the dance ended, and Edward stomped to a halt, chest heaving for just a moment before he regained his breath. He was feeling a little light-headed. The joy in his heart, however, had more than made up for the exertion and the pain that came with it. As the sound of his heart pounding in his ears died down, he became aware of the crew around him clapping and cheering, and he grinned, glancing around as they chanted his surname. Chuckling, he dipped a bow, and then winced a bit as he realized that his side was hurting worse than he had thought it was. Smirking to hide his pain, he straightened and looked over to Drystan, who was observing with one eyebrow raised.

"So?" Edward asked, and pulled a chuckling Steven under his arm, ruffling the boy's hair. "How'd we do?"

Drystan glanced wryly around at the crew. "Well, boys? How'd they do?"

A round of cheers met their ears. "Kenway! Kenway! Kenway!"

She turned wryly back to Edward, eyebrow raised.

"It seems, Captain, as though you've won," she quipped. "Which song do you choose for me to play next?"

Edward chuckled and went over to take a seat beside her. "Not sure, yet. Something Welsh."

"Of course." Drystan rolled her eyes, and pointed the bow at the losing pair. "You two? I wanna hear a nice, loud round of Whiskey in the Jar!"

As the pair of them laughed and set to song, Drystan turned to Edward, who was trying to think of a Welsh song to which the crew could dance.

"Why the sudden interest in the game?" she asked quietly over the sound of the men clapping and cheering along. Edward shrugged.

"Like I said, I wanted to hear something Welsh," he replied simply, and sent her a sidelong glance. "Thought you might appreciate where I'm coming from, being a fellow Welshman."

Drystan's lips quirked wryly.

"I love my country," she informed him softly. "Not necessarily the people in it."

"Oh?" He frowned slightly. "Why's that?"

Drystan was silent for a moment. Then she snorted and started plucking impatiently at the strings of her violin.

"Just choose your song, Kenway," she muttered.

He was quiet a second. Then he chuckled, a little bitterly, and gave her a wry smile.

"Funny thing," he returned, "I can't think of any dances. Just shanties, and one more, which is my favorite of them all."

"Then I'll play that one," she offered, but Edward shook his head.

"No," he said, distantly. Even Caroline had never sung  _that_  song to his liking. "No, that one's a special one. It can only be sung, and by a good singer, at that."

They were silent a moment, Edward lost in memory, and Drystan watching him.

"Morfa Rhuddlan, then?" Drystan asked. Edward smiled slightly before he even realized that it was a concession.

"That sounds nice," he said. Drystan nodded slowly as the crewmembers finished singing "Whiskey in the Jar," and placed her bow to the string. Then she paused, and lowered it again, turning to face Edward fully.

"Will you sing?"

The question took Edward by surprise, and he looked over at her to find that she was looking uncertain.

"Me?" he countered, incredulous. Drystan shrugged.

"Why not?" she asked, her voice rough with its falsely-low tone. Edward fleetingly entertained the thought of what her voice might sound like were she to sing in her natural register, and then he brushed it off. "This is a song best done with a singer, and a bard to accompany him. As I can't sing and play at the same time, I need someone to sing for me… and I hear tell you have a nice voice."

Edward barked a surprised laugh.

"Whoever told you that must've been piss-drunk," he stated, to the crew's amusement, "but I see your point." He tossed up his hands and leaned back against the mainmast. "Fine! I'll sing for ye, but don't you go blamin' me when your ears start to bleed!"

Drystan's smile was small, but strangely, worth seeing. The cheers that the crew gave also made it worth the hassle. As Drystan set bow to string again, Edward glanced up to the helm, finding that Connor was smiling down at them, his dark face looking far less careworn than Edward had ever seen it.

It was nice, to see everyone enjoying themselves so much.

" _Du ac arswydus yw'r hanes am heddiw, Trechodd Caethiwed fyddinoedd y Rhydd…"_

* * *

_June 26, 1715._

Havana was as busy as always. Rhian Yates, or Drystan, as she was known to the rest of the crew, leaned lazily against the gunwale at the bow of the ship as the warm breeze coasted them into the harbor under the surprisingly adept hands of Connor "Ratohnhaké:ton" Kenway, whom was known to the rest of the crew as simply "Connor." Strange, she mused, that they should both seem to have so much in common: both wanting to hide their true names and selves from those around them, both wanting to go back to where they belonged, and both longing to simply be themselves even though it was an impossibility.

Rhian sighed gustily, realizing that she was beginning to wax poetic in her own mind. She needed a drink.  _Desperately._

She glanced idly over to Connor. Hmm, maybe she would invite him to join her. Rhian had earned a few pennies' worth of gold during the past couple of days by keeping the men from getting bored while they were stuck in the doldrums, so she could pay his way if needed. Even the Mighty and Exalted Captain Edward Kenway had been impressed by her skills with inventing games to play and her mental library of songs to which they could sing and dance. Still, her slightly-sore fingers and aching neck were worth the money, if nothing else.

Rhian scowled absently at the thought of the  _Jackdaw's_  captain. The man was an insufferable, arrogant ass at the best of times, and downright intolerable whenever he was in his cups. Still, she owed him her life. And however convoluted and complicated the situation may be, Rhian never reneged on a debt, or a deal, of any kind. She had been raised to be a businesswoman, after all, and it would be bad business for that businesswoman to gyp her clients. Her scowl deepened at the thought of her upbringing. Really, the only valuable things her father had ever taught her were how to invest and create a successful business, and that languages opened doors.

And if there was one truth in this world, Rhian mused, it was that languages opened doors. Her linguistic abilities had certainly saved her life more than once. Her father had done  _something_ right when he had had her tutored in various languages of the major world powers.

_Che una buon'idea._

"Take in all sail!" Connor hollered, bringing Rhian out of her thoughts. She looked up, finding that they had nearly reached Havana. In fact, Connor was just guiding the  _Jackdaw_  in to dock as she realized this. A minute or two later, Connor called for "drop anchor," and the ship drifted slowly to a stop, a solid five feet from the dock for which he had been aiming.

Nicely done.

Rhian slung her violin, safely ensconced in its case and held in a canvas sack, over her shoulder, and made her way up to the helm, where Connor was conversing quietly with Gregson, the quartermaster and second-in-command of the  _Jackdaw._  She only spared half a thought for where the captain was; then she shook that half-thought away, and sidled up to Connor.

"So, what now?" she asked him quietly once Gregson had walked away. Connor turned to her at the sound of her voice.

"What do you mean?" he inquired. Rhian gestured to the dock.

"Gregson will most likely take care of purchasing supplies and trading the schooner," she replied. "I don't frankly care what Edward is planning on doing, as long as it doesn't get the rest of us into trouble, and most of the crew will probably just be visiting taverns and brothels, tonight. I, myself, am planning on having a pint or two. What about you?"

Connor was quiet for a moment. He looked uncertain.

"Actually, I had not thought about it," he admitted at last. "I cannot leave, since Edward is still keeping my… my item. And I do not feel that it would be wise to go about Havana with this injury as it is."

Rhian considered that statement for a moment. Then she nodded.

"I understand," she admitted, "and I, myself, am obviously not in the best of form." She paused, and lowered her voice. "Honestly, I'm having trouble keeping my feet beneath me, the pain is so bad. But I can't afford to be seen as weak before the crew and captain."

"You will do no one any good if you get sick on top of being wounded," Connor reminded her quietly. Rhian's lips quirked in a smile.

"Well, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?" Her riposte was received with a slightly confused stare, and she chuckled. "It means that you're being a little hypocritical, Master Connor. You, I believe, were stabbed in the stomach, yourself, and have been up and about for several days, already."

He had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed.

She smiled at him. "Come on, have a drink with me. If nothing else, it'll dull the worst of the pain."

Connor shifted uncomfortably, glancing down to the weather deck as the door to the captain's cabin opened, admitting Edward to the afternoon sunlight.

"I do not drink." Connor leaned heavily against the helm, and his face was wan despite the orange quality given it by the sun sinking into the sea at the horizon. "I never have."

Rhian followed his gaze, and then shook her head.

"Come," she recommended quietly. "If nothing else, you can keep me company and make sure I don't give myself away to anyone." She nodded to Edward. "I know that lump won't do me that courtesy, and he's the only one, other than you, who knows what I am." The sidelong glance that Rhian sent Connor was wry, and full of amusement. "If you accidentally grab a breast while catching me if I fall, I won't slit your throat in your sleep, I promise."

That got a chuckle out of her stoic companion, and they fell silent for a moment. Rhian could tell that Connor was actually considering her offer, now, if only because she had subtly asked him to watch her back. She figured that she could try to get him to drink something once she actually got him off the ship. The boy was even more uptight than she was, not that that was truly saying much. Rhian  _had_  to be uptight, if her gender was to remain the carefully-guarded secret that she had successfully kept for five long years already.

Not for the first time, she wondered what Connor's secrets were.

Glancing sidelong at him once more, Rhian shifted her canvas sack on her back, readjusting the weight distribution to something a bit more comfortable. Her violin and its bow, while light, were just heavy enough when combined with the solid wooden case case to put strain on her healing stomach wound. It was time, Rhian decided, for her and Connor to have a good chat, so long as she could do some performing in one of the taverns and make some coin at the same time.

Yes, that might be good.

"Well?" she asked as Connor leaned a little more heavily on the helm. He glanced over at her, raising an eyebrow. "Supper in a tavern, let me play a few songs and earn some coin, and then come back to the ship for the night?"

His lips quirked briefly.

"Fine," he agreed at last, sighing almost silently. "If only to keep you out of trouble."

Rhian grinned. "Thank'ee kindly, Master Connor." She turned away. "Shall we?"

He shook his head.

"We should make sure there is nothing for us to do, first," he replied. Rhian pursed her lips at the statement, and then looked over to where Gregson was overseeing the belaying of some of the lines.

"Oi, Gregson!" Rhian called, and the man in question looked inquisitively over to her. "You need us to do anything before we head to shore for the night?"

Gregson stared at the pair of them for a long moment, eyes calculating. Then he chuckled and shook his head.

"Nah," he called back. "I'll see ye in the tavern, laddie. Save a march or two fer me."

"I will," Rhian replied, smiling. Then she grabbed Connor by the elbow and tugged him in the direction of the boarding plank. The man in question sighed heavily, and yanked his arm away from her after a step or two. When Rhian looked back at him, she realized that he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

She frowned for a second. Then she realized that he had grown incredibly tense for the time that her hand had been in contact with his arm. So, he did not like touch. Rhian could deal with that.

"Come on!" she exclaimed, leading the way. "I want to get to a tavern before some other arse takes my spot. Bards are in strong competition, you know!"

Connor nodded and followed her.

Havana was as bustling a city as Rhian remembered her to be. All around them, sailors swore and cursed; Rhian added to the mix with her own oaths and shouts as she shoved people roughly out of her way, driving through the dock crowd with all the finesse of a rampaging rhinoceros. Connor trailed along behind her, keeping quiet. She presumed that he knew that she knew what she was doing, and so left the task to her. That, she was fine with. She knew how to get on with sailors and pirates and privateers of all types, knew the back-and-forth, knew all the right phrases to ease a wounded ego or soothe a bruised arm. These were what she used as they passed through the dockside crowd.

Within 10 minutes, they had made it to Havana proper. The city herself was nearly as busy as her docks, with merchants hawking their wares left and right, people haggling, drunks staggering through the streets, piss and shit and vomit flowing in turgid rivers down the gutters to the shore. The stench was awful, and the heat worse, after so long at sea. However, Rhian forged ahead, striking for the nearest tavern.

"By the way," she commented to Connor as they neared the place. "Taverns are excellent places to gather information. Keep your ears open for anything that sounds even slightly interesting."

He nodded his assent. Then Rhian pushed open the tavern door and entered, eyes questing for the barkeep. She found him and crossed the mostly-empty room with quick, purposeful strides. The man leaned against the counter as she approached, raising an eyebrow at the fresh-faced, diminutive young "man" he saw approaching him.

"Need some entertainment for the night?" Rhian asked, lowering the register of her voice as she leaned against the counter opposite the man.

But he was already shaking his head. "This ain't a dancin' establishment."

"Faugh!" Rhian exclaimed, frowning. "Every good tavern needs music. It'll attract more customers."

"And ye'll be gone come tomorrow," the barkeep replied with a scowl. "Doubtless to ship off God knows where. Yer probably a pirate, anyway."

"Privateer, actually," she replied with a grin, hoping that he did not realize that she was officially lying through her teeth. She lowered her voice again. "Listen. I'm a fair hand at the fiddle and know a broad range of songs. Tuppence for five go to you if you give me a rum and two ales to last me to midnight."

She watched as the barkeep pondered the offer for a moment. It was a generous one, really: a rum and two ales, and he would get to keep two fifths of her earnings. Of course, it would all depend on how well the crowd liked her. She was confident in her entertaining abilities, but she knew that the barkeep was not so sure. Rhian could almost see the gears turning in his head.

At length, Connor sidled up slightly behind her, his warmth a tangible thing at her back, and Rhian saw the barkeep's eyes dart to her companion. Then the man sighed and went back to scrubbing down the bar.

"Fine," he conceded at length. "But ya can't start playin' 'til we get more folks in. I won't 'ave you foulin' up the quiet with yer fiddlin' 'til there's a reason fer it. An' until then, ye're payin' fer yer ale yerself."

Rhian sighed slightly, but nodded. "Fair enough. I'll be back in a couple hours, then."

And with that, she pushed away from the bar and headed for the door. Connor trailed behind her, curious as to what she was doing.

"Where are we going?" he inquired as Rhian shouldered open the door with some effort and led the way back out to the humid Havana streets. She glanced at him as he joined her.

"To find something to occupy ourselves with until suppertime," she replied. She glanced over to the harbor, seeing that the  _Jackdaw_  had been successfully tied up, and the schooner beside her. She could see Gregson and Edward standing on the dock near by it; Edward had his arms crossed over his chest, and his posture screamed annoyance as Gregson conversed angrily with a swarthy fellow. Rhian pursed her lips, resisting the urge to go intervene. Instead, she glanced around, searching for something else to do.

"What are Gregson and Edward so annoyed about?" It seemed that Connor had noticed the same thing she had. Rhian groaned, and finally resigned herself to getting involved as she turned back toward the docks and began slowly walking in that direction.

"A bad price for the schooner, in all likelihood," she sighed. "He'll probably try to offer them less than what it's worth, so that he can sell it back for a nice profit. Gregson knows that, but he's not skilled enough to convince the buyer otherwise, and knowing Edward, even for as short a time as I have, I know that he doesn't have a head for business. He probably only has a vague idea of what's going on, and only because Gregson's gettin' so worked up." She cast Connor a sidelong glance, and then gasped as she stumbled over a cobblestone, pulling her wound painfully.

Connor reached out and steadied her until she could breathe again. Once Rhian straightened up again, she thanked him with a grateful smile. Connor nodded. They moved on.

"Anyway," Rhian continued, "Edward's probably more annoyed that he can't just go ahead and cut loose. Probably thinking more about the Havana whores than he is about the business transaction."

Connor's features pinched with distaste, but he did not reply. Rhian's boots clunked onto wood as they reached the docks.

"Which is why I'm stepping in, despite my better judgement," she muttered, to Connor's surprise. Then she led the way over to the small gathering, straightening up, squaring her shoulders, and plastering a disarming grin onto her face.

"Afternoon, gentlemen!" she called as she neared the trio. Three pairs of eyes landed on her simultaneously. "I couldn't help but notice that there seem to be some tensions running high over here. What seems to be the problem?"

The trader with whom Gregson had been arguing sniffed disdainfully, and gestured rudely to the schooner behind him.

"He is trying to sell me a scuttled ship," the man replied. He was dark in face and hair, and his accent told her that he was of Spanish descent, or from the Spanish colonies. Rhian pursed her lips and nodded.

"Gregson?" she asked, turning to the other man. Rhian was vaguely aware of Edward's gaze lingering upon her, but she paid him no mind. If he wanted to picture her with her clothing off, it was no skin off her back. If he tried anything, however…

Rhian had no qualms about making sure he would never be able to have children.

"You know as well as I do that she's seaworthy," Gregson growled. Rhian nodded slowly.

"Well, I haven't seen her since you lot blew holes in her," she reminded him, and then turned to the businessman as Gregson sneered at her. "I think that  _señor_ …?"

"Escobar," the man replied.

" _Señor_  Escobar," Rhian repeated, turning to Edward and Gregson, "should be allowed to come aboard and see just what it is he is looking to purchase." She coughed, the false register of her voice beginning to irritate her throat. Then she turned back to Escobar. "I have sailed on this schooner for the past two years, and can vouch that, when she is fully repaired, she is one of the best vessels to sail the Main. She's fast, reliable, easy to careen, and has a surprisingly large hold. Perfect for anything from trading, to rum-running, to privateering."

Rhian gestured to the gangplank. "Shall we?"

Escobar sniffed, and turned to the ship.

" _Sí_ ," he replied, and Rhian nodded and led the way.

As the duo disappeared up the gangplank and onto the ship's deck, Connor frowned and turned to Edward and Gregson.

"What was the real problem?" the dark-skinned man asked. Edward shrugged, looking nonchalant, while Gregson shot a dark glare at the  _Jackdaw's_  captain.

"Captain  _Kenway_  decided he wanted to insult the man by trying to rush things along," Gregson snarled. "Thinkin' with his cock and not his head."

Connor frowned, and turned to Edward.

"Is this true?" Connor asked slowly, not sure what to think of the information. While he was not unfamiliar with the mechanics of sex, that did not mean that he wanted to picture his  _grandfather_  doing it with any of the whores in Havana.

Edward shot Connor an irritable look.

"It's been a month since I've had a good fuck," the blond man griped, crossing his arms defensively, "or even seen a woman. And don't you dare reference Drystan. I'm not randy enough to chase that…  _that_. No matter how much  _some_  of us might like to make insinuations about their captain's appetites."

The glare he shot Gregson made it clear to whom he was referring. Gregson glared right back.

"Well, maybe if you'd gone ahead and buggered the whelp, you'd be thinkin' wit' the 'ead on yer shoulders an' not the one between yer legs!" the quartermaster griped. "An' then we wouldn't need said whelp ta try ta smooth over yer bungling!"

Edward's blue eyes flashed as he uncrossed his arms and turned to face his second, fists clenched at his sides. He had just opened his mouth to say something that would, no doubt, start the fight they were on the verge of, but then, in stepped Connor. The tall, dark man got between the two pirates, a stern glare leveled first at Gregson, and then at Edward.

"I cannot believe this," Connor stated, briefly clenching his fists. "The both of you will calm down immediately and act the part of the  _men_  you are." He glanced to Gregson. "You will stop making a scene before you attract unwanted attention." As Gregson growled furiously and turned away, Connor looked back over at Edward, disappointment flashing in tawny eyes. "When Drystan returns with Escobar, you will apologize to Escobar for insulting him. Then, once he has paid you, you will thank him, give the money to Gregson, and go about your business. Understood?"

Edward's eyes flashed murder as he clenched his fists at his sides again. His face was flushed with anger as he stared up at the taller man; lank strands of blond hair tickled his cheeks as he opened his mouth to tell Connor where he could shove his command. Connor, however, was not in the mood. His own tawny gaze turned icy-cold and sharpened dangerously. He almost seemed to grow as he squared his shoulders and straightened his back, glaring down into Edward's furious stare. Edward clenched his teeth in response, gathering himself as he straightened to his full height, hand twitching dangerously, ready to trigger his hidden blade at any second.

The contest stood, and for several long moments, it was uncertain whether one of them would capitulate, or whether a fight would break out.

Then they heard a strained laugh from the schooner, and Connor's gaze drifted past Edward as Drystan reemerged with Escobar, the trader looking much calmer than before. As Escobar descended the gangplank to the dock again, a laugh on his lips, Drystan leaned against the gunwale, a strained grin on his lips. Drystan said something in Spanish, and Escobar responded with another laugh before he strode right up to Gregson and shook the quartermaster's hand.

"You are lucky your musician is such a good man!" Escobar exclaimed, and then patted Gregson on the shoulder. "Come, I shall collect my money, and you shall be paid in full."

The stress melted from Gregson's features.

"Thank ye, my good man," Gregson replied, grinning. "An' yes, we're lucky, indeed. Drystan's a good lad."

Connor was eyeing Drystan with concern as the boy leaned more heavily on the gunwale, looking pale, but directed his glare back on Edward regardless. Edward met it defiantly for a second. Then he grudgingly capitulated, and turned to Escobar, plastering a grin on his face.

"My apologies, Master Escobar," Edward stated. "If I was short earlier, and I know I was, it's only because we've been two months at sea without a good meal. You shouldn't have borne the brunt of my frustration."

It was a bald-faced lie to those who knew him, but Escobar accepted the apology with good grace. As he and Gregson walked off down the pier, Connor turned back to Edward, tawny gaze still steely.

"I would say that you should thank Drystan, as well," Connor began, voice a low growl, "but I think that you have done enough damage for one night." He snorted disgustedly and stepped around Edward to go assist Drystan. "Enjoy your carousing,  _Captain."_

Edward held back for just a moment after Connor passed him, and then he spun around, furious.

"Oi!" he exclaimed, and then stopped short.

If Connor was looking somewhat pale beneath the flush of his anger, Drystan was looking like death warmed over. The girl's face had gone grey, and now that Escobar and Gregson were out of sight, she had slumped to the deck of the schooner, curled around her stomach while she weakly gripped the gunwale with her left hand and her right clutched Connor's forearm where the dark man was steadying her. Edward could see the girl's shoulders heaving. Connor's lips were moving, the low murmur of his voice indistinct at this distance, but Drystan nodded every so often. As Edward realized what must have happened, a strange twinge of guilt curled in the pit of his stomach.

Drystan must have overexerted herself trying to soothe Escobar's ego, and all so that they could get a good price for the schooner on which she had spent two years sailing. And Connor looked little better. Edward realized that the other Assassin must still be feeling the effects of his wound, also, though he hid it remarkably well.

Yet the two of them had worked in tandem to better the  _Jackdaw's_  crew and captain, and had succeeded despite Edward's own stubbornness and the pride that had been wounded on all sides. It was… a little humbling, actually.

The shame that washed suddenly over Edward was shocking in its intensity. He gritted his teeth against it, frustration and anger rearing their ugly heads in retaliation to the guilt. Once again, he was furious.

As Connor and Drystan both looked up and met Edward's gaze, the captain glowered and spun away, stalking away into town in search of a whore, a hot meal, a bath, and a tankard of ale, not necessarily in that order. All he wanted to do was banish the memory of their burning disappointment from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs are all from that time period, or were recorded shortly after (meaning that they were probably being sung/played plenty before they were written down).
> 
>  
> 
> __**Welsh Translations:  
> **  
>  Cach - Shit
> 
>  
> 
> __**Italian Translations:  
> **  
>  Che un buon'idea - What a good idea.
> 
>  
> 
> A note on Caroline: In Edward's bio, it states that his first wife's name was Caroline, and that their marriage, though passionate by all accounts, fell apart due to his irresponsibility. His going to sea was the clincher. He actually appears to have been at sea already by the time their daughter, Jenny, was born in 1713, unless the dates are wrong. Which means that Edward's a dad prior to this story's beginning. In here, he doesn't actually know about that, yet.


	6. Chapter 5: Confusion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rhian gets drunk and Connor and Edward play the heroes.

  
**_Chapter 5: Confusion._ **

_"How can shits like them confuse and infuriate me all in one go?"_

_June 26, 1715._

"Sometimes, I wonder if he just can't help himself." A sigh, and Connor raised a sympathetic eyebrow at the sound of his companion's low-register "boy" voice. 

Rhian pursed her lips as she firmly screwed in a peg on her violin, tuning for the fourth song of the evening. She had walked away briefly to take a small break and enjoy the first sips of her pint of ale; the other, she had put in front of Connor, who was sitting at a table near her corner. The man in question had not so much as touched the drink. Rhian could not honestly say she was surprised. Of course, when she came back, she found that the A string peg on her violin had slipped, sending the string in question skewing wildly out of tune. Hence, why she was re-tuning.

"The man's a pig," she continued, drawing her bow across the A string for a gauge of the new note. "It's not a wonder he's not married, anymore."

For some reason, Connor looked up, at that. Curiosity was prevalent in his features as he frowned at his companion.

"He was married before his sailing career?" he questioned. Rhian glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, yes," she replied. "It's obvious, if you know what to look for."

Connor pursed his lips.

"I do not know what to look for," he admitted softly, and looked down at his folded hands. "I have never been married, myself, nor have I truly observed anyone whom has... lost their spouse."

Rhian studied him for a moment, and then she shrugged.

"Well, firstly, he's got a very small portrait of himself with a young woman on the wall above his cot in his cabin," she explained, tweaking the peg a little more. "Judging by the fact that the pair of them wear matching rings on their fingers in the image, one can conclude that the woman was his wife."

She paused again, frowning when the peg refused to stay. Growling, she lowered the instrument from her shoulder and took a firmer grip on the peg, corkscrewing it into the peg box determinedly.

"Secondly," she grunted, plucking the string repeatedly with the thumb of her left hand as she raised the pitch back up, "he no longer wears the ring, and there is a rather obvious lack of any correspondence that may have come from home. Thus, he is no longer married to her, and it's likely that the marriage ended on a bad note, otherwise she would keep him updated about their finances, or about life at home."

She swore vehemently as the peg slipped a second time. Finally, she reached down into her violin case and drew out a small nugget of white chalk, which she proceeded to rub on the stubborn peg after freeing it slightly from its hole. Afterwards, she readjusted the string again with all the firm-but-gentle patience she had always displayed with the precious instrument.

"Lastly, he has moments where he'll look at something, or mention something, and a wistful look will come to his face," she concluded, and Connor watched her frown down at the violin, tweaking the string a little to change its pitch just slightly. "Thus, somewhere in his heart, he still longs for the far shores of home. Therefore, one can conclude that his wife was the one who made it official, most likely  _after_  he first left to go to sea."

Rhian finally looked up at Connor again, satisfied that her violin's A string was in tune, and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well?" she questioned. "What do you think?"

Connor did not know what to think, honestly, so he remained silent. They were quiet a moment.

"I think he does it to try to forget." Rhian's musing was soft as she plucked absently at the strings, running her fingertips across them thoughtfully. Connor looked up at her, finding her staring wistfully out the smoke-stained windowpane. "Fornicating, that is. Most men do, it seems. They do it to forget their loneliness, to find a purpose, to forget that they've left their loved ones behind."

She paused, and then huffed wryly. "It's either that, or he's just got one hell of an appetite for the carnal acts."

Connor grunted in disgust, and she was shocked to see him lift the tankard to his lips and take a large gulp of it. He shuddered visibly, but swallowed with some apparent difficulty before he turned a glare on her.

"I would appreciate it if you did not speak of...  _that,_  to me," he coughed. Rhian stared at him for a second. Then she laughed.

"Boy, you think that ale's strong?" she asked, grinning. He shook his head.

"I told you before, I do not drink," he reminded her, even as he lifted the tankard to his mouth for another, albeit smaller, drink. She smirked at him knowingly, to which he replied with a grimace. "Again, I would ask that you not speak to me about Edward Kenway's sexual encounters, whether real or hypothetical."

"Why not?" Rhian reached over for her own tankard, and took a sip of her own before she frowned and started re-tuning her E string. Connor sighed and bowed his head, absently swirling his ale around in his mug.

"I just would prefer  _not_  to hear about his... exploits."

Rhian gave him a calculating glance, her seafoam-green gaze sweeping across his face. Then she frowned and paused before setting her violin aside and leaning forward, studying him closely. She watched Connor swallow, tawny eyes darting away from her face so that he could look around the room.

It was as his face turned away from her that she noticed it.

Connor and Edward had the same nose. The same cheekbones. Same curve of the lips.

"You're related to him," she observed, and Connor's mouth tightened. She propped her chin on her hand and tilted her head to the side. "So? How is it? Brothers? Half-brothers? Your da get around a bit? He a sailor? That how the two of you look so much alike?" Rhian tilted her head the other way. "Or are you cousins?"

Connor opened his mouth to reply, but then he shut it as the door to the tavern opened to admit the captain about whom they were speaking. He was staggering slightly, and laughing as the dark-haired prostitute on his arm tittered at something he had said prior to entering.

As his gaze swept the room, perhaps on habit, he locked eyes with Rhian, and paused. Rhian stared back unflinchingly for a moment. Then, as the whore on his arm giggled again, Rhian's lip curled in disgust, and she shook her head, turning back to Connor with a disdainful snort. Neither of them looked up as Edward staggered to a table with his companion and ordered a drink for them both.

Rhian snorted in disgust and took a rather large swallow of her ale before she gave Connor a dry look and picked up her violin again. Closing her eyes, she set her bow to the A string, and using her smallest finger to hit an E note, began to play "Take, O Take Those Lips Away." While the murmur of conversation died down briefly with the first few measures of the song, it soon resumed. Without a singer to accompany her, the song just sounded plain and faded into the background.

So it was that, when she paused between the first round of it and the second round and opened her eyes, she was surprised to see both Edward and Connor staring at her, the looks in their eyes and the expressions on their faces so similar that any hint of doubt in her mind vanished.

They were  _definitely_  related.

"Take, oh! take those lips away..." Rhian almost jumped at the sound of Connor's voice, her seafoam-green gaze flicking over to land on him as he continued in time with her violin. "That so sweetly were forsworn... And those eyes the break of day... Lights that do mislead the morn..."

Rhian's stare flicked back over to Edward, finding that he was frowning contemplatively over at them, chin propped on his hand, fingers tapping against his tankard. His blue gaze was distant, expression melancholy and wistful. Connor, too, looked like his thoughts were far away from the present.

Rhian took the opportunity that the break in the song provided to improvise a little, starting with an ascending arpeggio and then flowing seamlessly into a series that sent her fingers skittering high up the E string, the notes pure and clear and so, so sweet. When she finished with a descending arpeggio and ritardando, she glanced back over to Connor to find that a small smile had quirked his lips.

She began the second half of the song.

"But my kisses bring again," Connor continued, voice a little stronger than it was before, "Seals of love, though sealed in vain. But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, though sealed in... vain."

As Rhian brought the song to a close, the sound fading off into silence, she smiled gently at Connor, who returned it. The sound of clapping met their ears. Rhian blinked and turned to the rest of the tavern, finding that every person in there was staring at the two of them. Some were grinning, others were misty-eyed, and still more were sighing happily. Rhian ducked her head and took a drink of her ale. She tried to ignore the way both of the Kenway men were staring at her, even as she felt the tips of her ears begin to heat.

She turned to Connor, feeling a little calmer.

"You have a nice voice," she stated, to which he chuckled, his own cheeks ruddy beneath his tan as he took a drink from his tankard.

"Thank you," he replied, his gaze boring into her own. Rhian found her cheeks heating under the intense stare, and took another gulp of ale to hide that fact. When she still felt his eyes on her after a moment, she looked up at him.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" she asked. Connor quirked a smile and looked down at his mug. At first, she was not sure that he would answer her. In fact, she had just picked up her violin to play a reel when his soft chuckle met her ears.

"I like you."

The statement made her blink. "Come again?"

Tawny eyes met seafoam green. "I like you." He took another sip of his ale, without grimacing this time. "You remind me very much of a dear friend of mine."

Rhian raised an eyebrow.

"That so?" she asked, and lifted the bow to the string for a hornpipe. The jig only took a few minutes to complete, but by the time she was halfway into the second round, people were laughing and clapping in time to the music, stomping their feet and grinning. Even Edward looked like he was beginning to relax.

As Rhian finished with a flourish, she grinned at the applause and turned back to Connor.

"Which old friend are you referring to?" she asked. Connor chuckled and slumped into his chair, relaxing bonelessly against its solid back. Rhian was surprised to realize that her friend was halfway drunk already.

"Her name is Cosette Delacroix," he replied, sighing wistfully. Rhian's eyebrows shot up.

_That_  was a surname she was, unfortunately, familiar with, thanks to her Assassin mentor.

"Oh?" She leaned forward, interested and inwardly concerned. "A lover?"

"What?" Connor looked shocked, and perhaps a little defensive. "No, no! Of course not!" He settled a bit. Lowered his voice. "She is simply... a good friend. My best friend."

Rhian took a moment to study his expression. Connor probably did not realize it, but his features had softened at the mention of this friend of his, and a small smile had quirked his lips. She found her expression mirroring his as he returned his gaze to hers.

Rhian slowly shook her head, not breaking their stare. "Connor, I think you're in love."

"No," he repeated stubbornly, but it was half-hearted at best. "She is often my partner on missions... and she saved my life, once. But she is not my lover."

"You don't have to be lovers to be  _in love,_  Connor," Rhian chuckled, sighing wistfully. They gazed at each other for a moment. Then she shook her head again with a smile, propping her chin on her hand. "Well, you're no good to me, now. Here I was hoping that you weren't taken, so that I could bed you."

Connor jerked upright in his seat, face and ears flaring red, and Rhian laughed out loud as he choked and sputtered on the sip of ale he had just taken. When he looked at her with wide eyes a second later, her laughter redoubled until her stitches pulled and her stomach and sides hurt, and tears were streaming down her face.

"Y-You-!" He gaped at her, lost for words, as Rhian cackled and clutched her stomach.

"Your face!" she gasped, calming just enough to begin feeling the pain, and then she hissed and grimaced, groaning slightly though she was still chuckling. As she looked back up at Connor, she gave him a strained grin. "I'm sorry, but your expression was just far too worth seeing."

Connor sighed and shot her a glare for her impudence, to which she simply grinned.

"I am afraid that I do not understand your humor," he grouched, to which she simply raised her tankard in salute, grinning before she took a swig and raised her arm, motioning for another. The barkeep arrived a second later with a new tankard, and she grinned up at the man.

"So?" she asked him, and he gave her an annoyed look. "How has my presence affected your business?"

The man glared at her half-heartedly. "Enough that this ale's been paid for already. Courtesy of the gentleman over there."

Rhian frowned in confusion and followed his gaze to where a dark-haired man was sitting against the far wall. He tipped his hat at her, a lewd grin on his face. Rhian fought down a shudder of revulsion and thanked the man with a strained smile. Her eyes drifted to the clock on the wall. It was about eleven-thirty in the evening, give or take a few minutes. So, as she turned back to Connor with a smile, she lifted the new tankard to her lips and drank deeply.

The ale in it was sweet, sweeter than normal. Rhian frowned and grimaced as she swallowed, gaze darting with alarm back over to the stranger at the wall. He was smirking slightly. Rhian gulped.

She could not refuse the drink, for doing so would be to rudely refuse the man's hospitality, to the point that it might start a fight. In her condition, she could not afford to get into a fistfight, and Connor was little better. But she could not afford for some arse to try to drug, seduce, and sodomize her. Rhian thought quickly even as she felt her face to begin to flush slightly.

She would have to tell Connor. That was her only option.

"Connor," she hissed as the barkeep briskly walked away. She was already beginning to slip into her native Welsh accent. Soon, her control over her vocal pitch would begin to go. "Connor, I'm goin' to need your help."

Connor looked slightly surprised by the accent, but he frowned and leaned forward. Rhian took a shaky breath.

"The drink is laced with somethin'," she whispered, plucking anxiously at her violin strings. Connor's eyes widened with alarm. Rhian swallowed, glancing away. "I can't tell exactly what it is, but if I don't drink it, it'll insult the man and cause a fight. So I have to drink it."

Connor had gone pale beneath the flush of alcohol in his cheeks. Rhian's eyelids fluttered. Her breathing was getting slightly heavier. Connor slowly turned around, his gaze questing for the man who had drugged his companion, but he was no longer there. Instead, Connor looked over to Edward, only to find that the man was quickly becoming rather involved with the whore with whom he had arrived. Connor said something, softly, in what must have been his native language; it sounded like an oath or a curse.

"Connor," Rhian called again. The word came out as a slight groan, this time. As she shifted in her seat, she felt a tingle run up her spine from where her breeches clung snugly to her thighs and groin, and she knew exactly the kind of drug with which her drink was laced. "Connor, it's an aphrodisiac of some kind. And it's having a bad reaction with the alcohol."

He swore softly again and turned back to her, concern in his gaze as he scanned her face. She swallowed and turned a pinched expression on him.

"Will you be all right?" he asked softly. Rhian shook her head even as she lifted her violin back to her shoulder.

"Nah," she replied, voice equally soft. "I'd be fine if I didn't have to drink this, but as it is, I've already had too much, and it'd be an affront if I didn't drink this, too." She shuddered slightly, and realized that the man who had bought the drink was now leaning against the bar. "Neither you nor I can afford a fight in our current conditions."

She took a deep breath. "I'll play a last set. You go collect our earnings from the barkeep now, and we'll leave after I'm done. If I manage to throw it all up soon enough, it might not affect me as strongly. You think you can get us back to the  _Jackdaw_  without gettin' us killed?"

Connor nodded, eyes lucid, and got up to go to the bar. Rhian relaxed back into her chair and drew her bow across the string for a last set of popular songs: O'Sullivan's March would be the first, followed by Mary Scott, then Drowsy Maggie, and Mad Moll would finish the piece. If she could keep her fingers steady and her head straight long enough to get through the song without too many problems, it was sure to get the establishment stomping and clapping.

Sure enough, by the time she was halfway through the set two minutes later, the crowd was really getting involved. Connor had returned, by that time, tucking a hefty purse into the front of his shirt, and quietly set to gathering up her violin case and its canvas sack, preparing it to receive the instrument in question. Glancing hazily down at him, she noticed him testing the tension of the wires connected to the rings on his fingers and realized that he was preparing to use them if required.

Not for the first time, Rhian absently wished that she had her own pair of hidden blades, if only for her own self-defense.

As soon as she finished the set to much applause and some cheering, Rhian clumsily set to work packing up her instrument. Her bow was loosened, her violin placed in its case and padded with the small cushion she kept in the box for that express purpose. The bow, she slid into its own sheath. Then Connor took the lot of it from her and packed it efficiently into the canvas bag.

It was then that Rhian turned to her tankard and, with one last, rueful and slightly scared glance to Connor, she drained the entire thing.

The sickly-sweet flavor choked her, and she nearly gagged before she managed to get it all down. Vanilla. She tasted vanilla, and cowhage, both of which were powerful aphrodisiacs. Slamming the tankard home, she reached out and grabbed onto Connor's arm, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Rhian leaned on him heavily, her head spinning, cold sweat breaking out on her forehead. As he urgently pulled her to the door, Rhian looked over in Edward's direction. The  _Jackdaw's_  captain was staring at her even as the prostitute he had arrived with ran her hands down his chest to his belt buckle, palms brushing over the man's crotch.

Their eyes met.

A pang of agony stabbed through Rhian's belly, and she folded in on herself with a sharp, barely bitten-off cry of pain. If not for Connor's steady grip on her, she would have fallen. Gasping through the burning in her belly, she allowed him to pull her to the door, stumbling heavily. The barkeep met them there. Rhian felt her mouth moving and making their excuses, but even later, she could never recall what they were. All she knew was that Connor shoved past the barkeep without any preamble, dragging her out into the humid night air.

Rhian gasped for breath as they stumbled out into the street. The dizziness was worsening. She groaned, tugging Connor towards the docks, knowing even in her growing delirium that it was not safe to stay in the town any longer. Not with that arse waiting somewhere for them to break away from any crowds, waiting to get them alone so that he could bugger her like the young boy she appeared to be.

Thankfully, they made it to the docks without incident. Not so thankfully, the  _Jackdaw's_  gangplank had been stowed. The two of them stood there for a long second, staring up at the ship, the dilemma racing through their heads. Then Rhian groaned and tugged Connor over to the water.

"Are you all right?" he asked, not for the first time that evening. Rhian shook her head, gasping and shaking and sweating.

"Help me kneel," she wheezed, her stomach aching again. Connor helped her kneel at the water's edge. Rhian gripped the edge of the dock, leaned out over the water, and, glancing fearfully at her companion, reached up with her right hand and shoved her fingers down her throat.

The reaction was immediate. Rhian's gag reflex kicked in, and she desperately grabbed at the side of the dock as she lurched out over the water, stomach clenching, and heaved out the majority of the alcohol she had consumed in the past half-hour or so. Connor was wonderful, steadying her as she choked and retched, tears streaming down her cheeks, her nose running and belly on fire.

It was a full five minutes before she settled again, and then Rhian stuck her fingers down her throat for a second time. This induced heaves that brought up a mix of yellow bile and a little more alcohol; after that, she was reduced to dry-heaving. By the time it finally died off, Rhian was on the verge of passing out from pain, exhaustion, and the drugs and alcohol that she had already digested.

As she coughed and gasped, she distantly heard Connor growl, a stream of unfamiliar words rattling from his mouth. She looked up, panting and blinking sweat out of her eyes, when his hands disappeared from her shoulders. The dark man from the tavern was approaching them, a smirk on his face and a swagger in his step. Flanking him were three other men, all with lewd grins on their faces.

Rhian's blood ran cold when she saw the pistols in their hands.

"Leave now," Connor ordered firmly, carefully depositing the sack with her violin in it onto the dock beside her. Rhian shook slightly, weakly twisting to face them, heedless of the vomit on her chin and the snot and tears on her face. Agony shot through her at the slightest motion, and more tears rolled down her cheeks; she was nothing if not brave, however, and she knew that she would rather face her enemies than have them stab her in the back.

She had to admit it, though: when she had pictured her death, she had never pictured herself dying curled over her stomach on the dock, barely able to move for pain and unwanted poisoning, and buggered up the arse by four blokes who had decided she looked like a cute  _boy._ Her hand slipped to the small of her back, where a dagger was sheathed in the waistband of her breeches.

Rhian would die before she allowed them to take her.

The dark man was smirking.

"Nah, dun' think we will," he replied easily, cocking the hammer of his pistol and leveling it at Connor's chest. "Give us tha' boy, and we'll think about lettin' ya go free."

Connor's hands twitched at his sides. Rhian heard the faint  _snickt_  of his hidden blades sliding out of their sheathes, saw his fingers curl towards his palms, saw him rotate at least one blade to hold it in a backwards grip. Idly, she mused that she had never seen a rotating hidden blade, before.

"I do not think so," Connor replied evenly. "If you depart now, you will not be shot by the crew of this ship." Rhian blinked, trying to ignore the way her vision was beginning to blur and haze, and glanced up at Connor's face. "You see, this boy is very well-liked by our crew. If you try to hurt him in any way, not only will I take two of you down with me in protecting him, but the rest of you will face retribution for my death and for his kidnapping." His tawny gaze narrowed. "Make your choice."

Rhian's eyes flicked back towards their aggressors even as the agony in her belly and the dizziness in her head redoubled, making her slump with a hiss to the planks beneath her. For just an instant, she watched doubt flicker across the men's faces. Then the leader scoffed.

Rhian gathered her legs beneath her as the leader pulled the trigger.

Even as Connor dodged to the side, Rhian surged to her feet, roaring her defiance, and charged in unison with her companion towards the men. The shock that spread across their faces at the action was absolutely beautiful. Also gorgeous was the pain that blossomed across the leader's face as Rhian buried her dagger in his throat a second later, stabbing in just to the right of his windpipe and tearing the blade out to the side. The slice severed both his jugular vein and carotid artery; it would be a quick death, thankfully. Blood sprayed, scalding hot and vivid red, across her face and clothing.

But Rhian was utterly spent.

She collapsed to the dock in agony as Connor proceeded to eviscerate two of the others. The last fumbled with his pistol, now shaking in his boots as he backtracked hastily, and Connor stooped to pick up one of the dead men's guns. Rhian had no doubt in her mind that he would use it to end the last man's life.

However, he never got the chance.

The man jerked to a halt all of a sudden, a choked whimper gurgling out of his throat. Then he dropped face-down onto the dock, stone dead. He was bleeding from a stab wound in the base of his skull. Rhian's eyes lingered on the corpse for just a second. Then she slowly looked up.

Edward was standing there, expression stony and ice-cold. As soon as he was sure that the dead man was really dead, he looked up, first at Connor, and then, after making sure that the darker man was all right, Edward looked to Rhian. Rhian stared back, vision skewing and hazing, cold sweat beading across her blood-splattered forehead.

Her breathing was constricted.

As Rhian felt strong hands grip her shoulders, she shuddered and slumped to her side, unable to handle the pain any longer. Her eyelids fell to half-mast. The damage to her abdomen had only worsened with her desperate bid for life, and now it had become utterly unbearable. Connor's voice met her ears, low and questioning. Rhian was vaguely aware of her numb lips murmuring a reply of some kind, but it was getting too difficult to breathe.

Dimly, she realized that she was shaking violently.

Her head spun, and she groaned as strong hands hoisted her into strong arms. She got the vague impression that it was not Connor holding her; instead of smelling of leather, pine, and woodsmoke, the person holding her smelled of sandalwood, sweat, sex, and the sea. The scent was strangely comforting, she thought distantly. Rhian dimly registered the feeling of cotton against her nose, and realized that she had turned her face into his shoulder.

A shiver wracked her body. Her belly was on fire. She could not breathe.

"E-Edward," she gasped faintly.

The world went black.

* * *

 

Edward felt Drystan go limp in his arms, and swallowed thickly, turning to watch as Connor nimbly scaled the hawser so that he could lower the gangplank. At this point, the dark man was more sober than Edward was. The Welshman himself had just barely been able to keep his feet under him as he had followed his newest crewmembers to the docks; as it was, Drystan's dead weight was enough to make him stagger slightly.

Back in the tavern, Edward had seen the flash of pain that had gone through Drystan's face just before she crumpled to the floor. Slightly alarmed, he had watched as Connor had shoved past the barkeep, Drystan mumbling some half-coherent excuse or another as they passed. After that, it had only taken about three seconds before Edward had realized that any and all desire that he had had for the whore he had hired had disappeared entirely. Swearing a blue streak, he had dismissed her from his presence and, paying for the two tankards of ale he had consumed since he had arrived at the tavern, he had stumbled out the door, determined to follow Connor and Drystan, if only to make sure they were all right. If nothing else, he figured he owed them that much for helping him and Gregson sell the schooner, earlier.

It had taken him a second to realize where the pair had gone, and even then, he had to use his Sight to do so. Still, he had tailed them to the docks.

He had lurched in his steps as he had neared the  _Jackdaw,_  and had barely caught himself against a crane on the dock. It had been then that he had spotted Connor standing over Drystan, who was kneeling at the edge of the dock, and the four men who had advanced upon them. Edward had been too far away to hear their words clearly. However, the meaning had been made clear by the four pistols pointing at Connor and the way the large man was standing protectively over his smaller shipmate.

As the shot rang out and Connor and Drystan both burst into motion, Edward had seen red.

His feet had moved before he even realized what he was doing, and in only half a second, he had come up behind the only man left alive. His hidden blade had finished the job easily enough. After that, he had scanned Connor for any newly-acquired wounds; finding him unharmed, Edward had turned to regard Drystan. The girl had been all but drenched in blood from whatever blow she had dealt her assailant, and her eyes had been dilated. Even as Edward rushed forward, she had groaned and slumped to the side. Only Connor's hands on her shoulders had kept her from falling into the guts and blood on the pier.

"Drystan?" Connor had questioned as Edward had staggered towards them. "Drystan, can you hear me?"

Drystan's eyelids had fluttered hazily, half-closed. She had been positively grey.

_"Dim,"_  Drystan had murmured. " _Ydw i... Brifa..."_

Edward had been alarmed to realize that her lips were turning blue. Drystan had begun trembling violently. Edward had wasted little time in kneeling down and scooping her into his arms, feeling it as her head lolled limply against his shoulder. Drystan had groaned at the motion.

"Get on that ship and lower the gangplank," Edward had ordered Connor. Connor had gone to do as he had been told, and it was then that Edward had looked down at Drystan, feeling her turn her face into his shoulder. He had been in time to hear her gasp his name before her eyes closed and she slumped in his arms, unconscious.

Which brought them to the current moment.

Edward swallowed as he gazed down at Drystan's slack face, the blood, vomit, tears, and snot staining it dripping slowly onto his sleeve. Not for the first time since he had begun tailing them, he wondered what had happened. But he pushed that thought aside and looked up as the thud of the gangplank hitting the dock met his ears.

Connor was staring down at him from the deck. Edward wasted no time in making his way up the gangplank, staggering slightly under Drystan's dead weight. Glancing around the deck, he realized that Gibbs was ashore for the night. The three of them were the only ones on the ship aside from the skeleton crew, and none of them would have any experience with whatever it was that had happened to Drystan.

"All right," Edward muttered to himself, and headed for his cabin. "Grab her violin, and get some stitching supplies from Gibbs's stores, and meet me in my cabin." He grunted, adjusting his grip on her as he felt her begin to slip. "And bring water and a cloth, so we can clean her up."

Connor departed to do as he had been told, and Edward crossed the deck to his cabin. It was already unlocked, as he had left it so earlier that evening; all he had to do was press down on the latch and shoulder it open, stumbling slightly as he overbalanced. Thankfully, he managed to recover before he slammed her head into the wall. Edward grunted as his own back hit the wall instead, and stood there a second, regaining both his breath and his bearings, before he moved over to his desk. Carelessly sweeping everything on it to the floor, he laid Drystan gently upon the oak surface, heedless of the maps and charts he was standing on.

Edward was still for a moment after he laid her down, trying to stop his head from spinning. He leaned heavily against the desk. After a second, he reopened eyes he had not realized that he had closed, and found himself staring down into a dazed, seafoam-green gaze. Drystan's features were pinched with pain, tendrils of wavy auburn hair sticking to the sweat on her cheeks, and her breathing was shallow, labored, and slow. In fact, her lips were beginning to look a little blue. She looked terrified.

It was alarming, to say the least.

The sound of the door opening told him that Connor had arrived, his arms full of supplies.

"Has she woken?" he asked, to which Edward nodded and hummed. As Connor came over and set his armload on the desk beside Drystan's waist, he eyed the mess around them, the pale blue of Drystan's lips, and the small splotch of red forming on her shirt above her belly.

"Seems her wound's either reopened, or her stitches've torn," Edward commented, blinking himself back to the present. His nimble fingers reached out and began to undo the first button of her trousers. "Start taking her waistcoat off, would you?"

Connor did as he was told, deftly undoing the buttons of Drystan's waistcoat before he slipped it off of her. Underneath was the white shirt she so favored; Edward tugged it out of the waistband of her breeches and shoved it upwards towards her breasts, revealing the heavy bandaging about her otherwise trim middle, which was splotched with red.

Edward looked up at Drystan and, when he saw that she was still awake, he gave her a wry smile.

"And here I half-expected you to be wearing a stay underneath all that," he quipped, but it was lost on the girl, whose eyelids were fluttering more rapidly than before. As he pressed lightly against the splotched section of her bandages, Drystan groaned softly, features pinching in pain. Edward swore quietly and shook his head, pulling his hand back and ejecting his hidden blade. Then he began to carefully cut away the bandages.

When they fell away a few minutes later, stained red and yellow with blood and pus, Edward inhaled shakily, looking at the wound in her stomach.

He had not really known, before, how far it extended. Now, however, he could see that it started nearly at her navel and ended nearly at her ribcage, most likely due to how she had slumped on him upon the initial stab. For the first time, he was struck by how easily she had forgiven him for the injury. She could easily have held a grudge and made his life a living hell, but she had not. In fact, she tended to avoid him more often than not; looking back, Edward realized that it was most likely because of his own attitude towards her.

Well, he mused, he might just have to reevaluate the way he acted towards her from now on. Her tenacity and strength were something to be admired.

At any rate, her stitches had been torn, and badly at that. Edward sighed and straightened, crossing over to his sea chest and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. As he went back over to the other Assassin and their charge, Connor frowned at the bottle in Edward's hand.

"I do not think that this is the time to be drinking more than you already have," Connor murmured, putting a reassuring hand on Drystan's shoulder as she groaned and closed her eyes. Edward gave the darker man a dry look.

"I know that," he replied. "It's for her wound."

Connor went silent a moment, staring at Edward. Then he nodded slowly. He stepped away, and let Edward work.

Cleaning the wound took little time, and repairing the damage done took even less, but it was still obviously painful for Drystan. Even though the wound was partially healed already, Edward still had to sew up the torn stitches. Every time he pushed the needle through the raw, inflamed flesh of the wound in her abdomen, she groaned a little louder and grabbed more firmly onto Connor's forearms where the dark man was holding her down. Thankfully, she did not struggle overly much.

Once the deed was done and Drystan's belly had been rewrapped, Edward straightened, stretched the kinks out of his spine, and exchanged a weary smile with Connor. Drystan, herself, was slack against the desktop, eyes closed and breathing steady if labored. She opened her eyes as Edward put his hand on her shoulder. Her expression was still pinched with pain and fear, and her eyes were dilated, but she looked a little lucid.

"How ya feeling?" Edward asked. Her lips parted, and she gasped for air a couple of times.

The words that slurred out of her lips were barely comprehensible, and Edward would not have understood them if Welsh was not his first language. Thankfully, however, he was able to translate what she had managed to get out.

Not so thankfully, the news was not good.

"She says she's having to make a real effort to breathe," he relayed, frowning, and then looked over at Connor. "What happened, anyway?"

Connor shook his head.

"One of the men we killed was in the tavern with us," he replied. "I do not know exactly what happened, but he must have planned to seduce her, not knowing about her wound." Connor nodded to the bottle of whiskey still sitting on the desk. "He ordered a tankard of ale for her, and had the barkeep lace it with an aphrodisiac of some kind." Edward gritted his teeth. "Drystan knew that if she refused the drink, it would probably cause a fight, which neither of us was in the shape to have."

The Welshman's teeth ground a bit harder.

"And neither of you thought to get my help?"

Connor leveled a dark look at Edward.

"Would you have believed her?" the darker Assassin asked. "Or would you have told us to go about our business as you enjoyed your  _companion's_  touch?"

The question made Edward blink, and then he frowned and opened his mouth to snap a vicious retort. However, the motion of Drystan turning her head away from them caught his eye, and he looked down to see her staring at the bookshelf, features still pinched. He watched her lay there, struggling to breathe, watched the undulation of her slender throat, watched her squeeze her eyes shut. A single tear escaped the corner of her left eye, pooling at the bridge of her nose before her breath hitched, tipping it over.

And suddenly, Edward knew.

"You didn't think I'd help you," he realized, and frowned. "Have I ever given you the impression that I would leave you to fight your battles alone? Ever?"

Both of them were silent. Edward growled and spun away, snagging the bottle of whiskey as he crossed over to his cot and dropped down upon it, taking a swig of the strong alcohol and then sitting there with his head cradled in his hands.

"You... left us... this- this afternoon." The small, rasping voice drew Edward's gaze back up to the girl on the table. Connor hushed Drystan softly, quietly telling her to save her breath. Edward, for his part, felt his temper flare.

"How was I supposed to know that you wanted  _my_  help?" he demanded, shooting to his feet. Restless, he began pacing. "I don'  _read minds,_  lass! I can't know when you want my help unless you signal for it!"

"Do not push the blame for this upon her!" Connor snapped, straightening. "Anyone with eyes could easily have seen that she was in pain, earlier, and yet you walked away."

Edward opened his mouth to refute that, but again, one look at Drystan's face told him that he had  _nothing_ with which to refute the statement. Absolutely  _nothing._

It stung a bit.

Edward turned away, unable to look at either of them. For a long moment, they were silent. He finally went over to the windows at the back of the aftcastle, bracing his hands against the sill so that he could lean heavily against it.

"I'm no hero." The admission was quiet, and Edward was startled by his own honesty. Swallowing, he blurted, "My only loyalty is to myself and my men, and most of what I do is to ensure their safety. Why would you look up to me as though I was someone to be respected?"

"Because you  _are."_  Drystan's voice rasped, and slurred terribly, but the words got out nonetheless. Edward bowed his head as her labored breathing turned to gasps. "To me... to... your men... To... To everyone... whom you h-have... s... saved... You're..." She groaned weakly.

"A hero."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs are all from that time period, or were recorded shortly after (meaning that they were probably being sung/played plenty before they were written down). "Take, O! take those lips away" was a song popular in the 1770s, and even before that, it was being played. The lyrics were written by William Shakespeare.
> 
> **Welsh Translations:**  
>  **Cach** \- Shit (this is becoming standard for my translations sections...)  
>  **Dim... Ydw i… Brifa…** \- No... I... It hurts...
> 
> Vanilla is an aphrodesiac, and cowhage was thought to be an aphrodesiac, most likely due to its phallic shape. Cowhage has antidepressant properties, which never mix well with alcohol. Though, it would not have affected Rhian as it did had she not already been so injured...
> 
> A note on Caroline: In Edward's bio, it states that his first wife's name was Caroline, and that their marriage, though passionate by all accounts, fell apart due to his irresponsibility. His going to sea was the clincher. He actually appears to have been at sea already by the time their daughter, Jenny, was born in 1713, unless the dates are wrong. Which means that Edward's a dad prior to this story's beginning.


	7. Chapter 6: Understanding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a drunk Edward unwittingly reveals some of his past grievances, he and Connor have a few heart-to-hearts, and red-crossed sails are spotted on the horizon.

**_Chapter 6: Understanding._ **

_"Still don't make much sense, but what little it does, I'm starting to see."_

_June 29, 1715._

Edward was brooding. That was the only way Connor knew to describe the captain's current mood. Unfortunately, the Welshman had been brooding for the past three days, and it was beginning to get annoying. As Rhian groaned faintly and tossed her head again, Connor absently laid his hand on her shoulder and murmured a few soothing words in his native language. She calmed shortly, and returned to her fitful sleep.

Rhian had been feverish since that night in Havana, and that was at the best of times. That first night, the poison that she had ingested had nearly killed her; she had stopped breathing twice. The first time, thankfully, Connor had been with her, so he had noticed when it had happened and had been able to breathe for her until she gathered the strength to force herself to keep breathing under her own power. After that, he had told Edward, and the two of them had taken watches over her, monitoring her and making sure she did not suffocate.

Connor had been shaken to realize that Rhian would have died for certain had she not thrown up most of what she had drunk.

After that first night, she had improved, and they had moved her down below, finally moving her to her own hammock to sleep in and making sure she drank copious amounts of fresh water from their stores. When Gregson and Gibbs heard about what had happened, the quartermaster was dismayed. The surgeon, however, had looked surprised for a second before shaking his head with a small smile.

"Ne'er doubted 'im fer a second," he had muttered, and then proceeded to check Rhian's wound and make sure that the poison was beginning to wear off.

After that, Edward had become strangely distant. It soon became obvious that he was avoiding either Connor, or Rhian, or both of them for reasons that Connor did not know. The childishness of the situation did not hurt him so much as it frustrated him. Connor was just about ready to corner Edward and force the blond man to speak with him; the Native man was certainly getting fed up enough to do it.

Rhian moaned again, faintly. Connor blinked and turned his attention back to his sick friend, finding a pair of seafoam green eyes blinking sleepily up at the ceiling. He gave her a faint smile when her gaze drifted over to land on him. Rhian just stared at him, confused, for a second before she closed her eyes and snuggled a little further into her hammock with a faint sigh. A heartbeat later, she was looking up at him again.

"...Connor?" she croaked. Connor smiled faintly at her and nodded, removing the cloth from her forehead and wetting it again from the bucket at his feet. When he gingerly laid it across her head again a moment later, she sighed and leaned into his palm.

"How do you feel?" Connor asked. Rhian coughed faintly, grimaced as the action pulled her stitches, and then grunted.

"Like I've been run through, poisoned, and haven't had a drink of _any_ kind in about a week," she rasped, and then coughed again. "D'you have any water?"

Connor wordlessly picked up the bottle of water from beside his feet. Uncorking it, he lifted it to her lips. Rhian's mouth opened, and he slowly tipped it in, allowing her ample time to swallow. When she pushed weakly at his elbow a few sips later, he drew it away and corked it again before setting it back down.

She cracked her eyes open again. "Where are we?"

Connor shifted. "About three days out from Havana, gradually heading for Nassau. Edward has been avoiding us, so I am not entirely certain as to what his purpose in that town could be."

Rhian stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then she closed her eyes with another sigh and, curling her arms protectively around her stomach, she swallowed and settled down again. Connor watched her breathing even out again a moment later, and knew that she was asleep yet again. Connor echoed her sigh and sat back in his chair, settling in for another long, uneventful wait. There came a footstep from behind him. The dark Assassin did not have to turn and look to know that Edward had come to visit, finally. Connor knew that the captain had been drinking, just from listening to his gait.

"How's our musician?" Edward's words were slightly slurred. 

"Drystan woke briefly just a moment ago," the darker man replied, re-wetting the cloth from Rhian's forehead and then gently replacing it. "He asked where we are going."

"Nassau," Edward slurred, and finally came over to lean against the hull near where Rhian's head was contained within her hammock. "Meetin' with a good friend o' mine an' 'er mates."

"Her?" Connor finally turned his gaze to his grandfa- Creator, but he could not think of this man as his  _grandfather._  They were too close in age; if anything, Connor was much, much older than the Welshman, at least mentally. Edward swayed slightly as he raised a bottle to his lips and took a long pull, humming an affirmation. Connor eyed the bottle with disgust.

"Why must you do that?" he asked. Edward would not look at him.

"Do wha'?"

"Drink." Connor shifted just long enough to put a reassuring hand on Rhian's forehead and keep the cloth there as she sighed faintly and tossed her head in her sleep. "Drystan and I are both fully capable of going about our days without depending upon alcohol to see us through, though it seems as though she does enjoy it when she can get it. I am curious as to the reason why you drink so heavily."

"Reason's got nothin' to do with it, boy," Edward muttered, and Connor turned to face the other man as Edward sighed and, putting his back to the hull, slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. He took another swig before he paused, simply cradling the bottle in his hands. He looked, Connor thought, like he was looking for the answers to all of his problems in the reflection of that green glass.

"Every man drinks for a reason," Connor observed quietly. He thought for a moment. Then he decided that it could not hurt. "A good friend of mine used to drink because his ship was scuttled. Then we fixed her, made her the finest in the seas, and he put away the alcohol and rarely got drunk again." He leaned forward, propping his free elbow on his knee, and peered into Edward's face.

"What is your reason?"

Edward was disturbingly silent. Connor studied the other man for a moment. Then, seeing the distant look to his gaze, Connor decided to take a shot in the dark.

"Are you thinking of your wife?" Connor watched as Edward flinched in response to the question, ocean-blue gaze darting up to tawny gold for half a second before returning to the green glass. Connor softened slightly. "When was the last you heard from her?"

"Five months ago," Edward replied softly, and leaned forward slightly to cradle his head in his hands. The bottle thunked faintly against the deck as he set it down. They were quiet a moment. Then Edward heaved a chuckle that sounded both insanely manic and utterly depressed. It was a terrible sound to hear. "D'you have someone back home who ye want to better yourself for? Better yer life for? Better yer circumstances for?"

"Yes." Connor thought about it for half a second. "My mentor, Achilles, my village and people, and my best friend." He paused, and then lowered his voice. "Especially my best friend."

Edward grunted. "What about a woman?"

Connor gave a little chuckle. "That would be my best friend."

"Yer best friend is yer woman?" Edward gave Connor a considering look. Connor shook his head.

"She is not  _my_  woman," he replied, feeling slightly awkward all of a sudden. A strange coldness curled into a ball in the middle of his chest at the statement. "She is... unattached."

"Then attach that girl to ye as soon as ye can, lad," Edward intoned quietly. "If she's yer best friend, she'll make ye a good wife."

Connor's temper flared briefly at the presumptuous statement.

"I do not think that she feels such for me," he grumbled, irritated. "And I am not certain that I feel such for her, either."

Edward scoffed. "Then, what?" He gestured expansively. His already-slurred speech worsened as his temper flared. "Ye'd rather 'ave a relationship based offa lust and insecure prospects, and 'ave it end wi' the woman tellin' you _almost a year_ after ye've _gone to sea_ that ye've got a _daughter_ together, an' tha' ye'll ne'er get ta see 'er a'cos ye can' go inta no respeccable port no longer? Thass no way to 'ave a relationship!"

And as realization dawned on Connor, Edward slumped back against the hull again, burying his face in his hands once more with a noise that sounded suspiciously like either a hiccup or a sob. Connor could not tell which. Suddenly uncomfortable, and unable to discern how he should comfort the other man in his grief, Connor turned his gaze to Rhian, allowing Edward his privacy.

Rhian's eyes were open. As Connor watched, she sighed silently and, turning her head towards Edward, she gazed at the distraught man for a long moment. Then she laboriously lifted one hand from her belly, reached over to him, and clumsily set her palm gently on his shoulder. Edward jumped slightly and looked up, ocean-blue gaze mistier and more vulnerable than he would ever have wanted to admit were he sober. Rhian gazed silently at him for a second before she allowed her eyes to flutter closed again.

She squeezed his shoulder.

Then her hand began to slip away from him, and Edward caught it almost desperately, holding onto the comforting touch. Connor watched the other man stare at the girl in the hammock for a long moment. After a time, Edward visibly calmed, and he leaned back against the hull again, though for some reason, he did not release Rhian's hand.

"Poin' is," Edward slurred, and Connor looked back over to the other man. "Bet'er ta marry yer best friend than end up li'... like me." He paused to clear his throat, and then coughed slightly, frowning. "Me an' Caroline, that is."

"Caroline?"

"Me wife." Edward took a deep breath and leaned back against the hull again, Rhian's hand cradled loosely in his own. "She an' I... we aren't on the best o' terms. Th' marriage..." Edward sighed, and gave a brief, wistful grin. "There was passion. Lots 'f it. Bu' passion don't make money. Passion don' buy bread, an' passion don' buy medicine when th' plague comes through an' kills ev'ryone 'round ye. Passion... Passion can't keep a marriage alive wi'out  _love_ and  _friendship_ to keep ye through the hard times."

"So, what?" Connor asked. "You went to sea to make your fortune, and she did not support your decision?"

Edward shook his head. "Nah... Th' marriage was fallin' apart long before I wen' ta sea. Tha' was just the last nail in th' coffin." He gestured vaguely to the hatch that led abovedecks. "Bu' Gregson? 'E fell in love with an' married 'is best friend. Goin' on ele'en years, I 'ear tell, an' both 'f um faithful. Two survivin' lads and a lass outta five. Now thass...  _Thass_ a good marriage."

Edward fell silent, and for a long time, neither of them spoke. Connor pondered the statement, taking the moment to seriously consider Edward's point. 

"I will..." He paused, tawny gold meeting ocean-blue. "I will consider it. And once I see her again, I will ask her to consider it, if I remember to do so."

Edward nodded, satisfied, and relaxed back against the hull once more.

He did not release Rhian's hand.

* * *

_July 2, 1715._

Connor watched from the helm as Edward pursed his lips, lowering his spyglass from his right eye so that he could glare ineffectively at the ship in the distance. They had spotted the other only that morning. Now, it was getting to be late in the evening, and though they had made some progress in chasing her down, the other had consistently eluded capture. Connor could tell that Edward was getting irritated. The  _Jackdaw,_ after all, was an incredibly fast ship, for her time, and for some run-of-the-mill schooner or sloop to be staying ahead of her was a challenge that was nearly insulting in its seeming innocence. To make things worse, there was a storm on the horizon. It was not terribly visible just yet, but not only could Connor feel it in the increasing humidity, but he could also smell it on the air.

No, Edward Kenway was not a happy captain, at the moment.

"Perhaps we should simply continue on to Nassau," Connor suggested slowly, adjusting their course just slightly where he stood at the helm. Edward gave a sigh of  frustration, coming back over to retake the helm from the other Assassin. "Continue to Nassau to meet your ally, instead of chasing this other schooner into the storm or into a trap."

"We'll be fine," Edward groused, leaning against the helm. All around them, the crew bustled about, doing chores, running up and down the rigging, hauling on lines, and so forth. "The storm's a ways off, yet."

"And the potential trap?"

Edward shook his head. "Little to no risk. No islands or shoals about to hide in, really."

"They will hide in the storm."

Connor pointed off towards the horizon, where the first portent of the tumult to come was just beginning to appear. He knew that the wisps of cloud would soon turn to a fierce gale. Edward followed his gaze, and Connor knew that the other man was thinking the same thing that he was, even if he would not say it aloud.

"It would be better were we to seek some form of shelter," Connor commented softly. The mostly-healed wound in his belly twinged unexpectedly, and he hissed in surprise, clenching his fist as he reflexively curled around it. "I feel that it will be a... big one."

Edward eyed him with a little concern, but Connor straightened soon enough, taking a deep breath and shaking off the pain.

"Got a sea-sense, now, do you?" Edward huffed a chuckle and looked out toward their quarry. If he was not mistaken, she seemed a little closer than before. "Well, just so happens I agree with you. Also happens to be that I think the  _Jackdaw_ can make it just fine."

Connor's mouth tightened.

"Is your treasury so bare that you would risk people's lives on this endeavor?" he demanded, golden-brown eyes hard as he turned to Edward at last. Edward turned flashing blue eyes onto Connor.

"I know what I'm doing, boy," the blond man growled, "and I know what my ship and my crew are capable of handling. What I  _don't_ know is why you're questioning me at every turn!"

"Because you have shown poor judgement on multiple occasions, leading to situations where others must step in and _try_ to salvage what is left of business transactions, bodily wellness, and the general peace," Connor hissed, glaring. "Your irresponsibility has caused trouble for others too many times for me  _not_ to question you."

Edward opened his mouth to retort, but froze as a shout from the rigging snatched his attention instead.

"Captain! Ships off the starboard stern!" 

"What?" Edward and Connor demanded in synchronization, and turned in unison to stare aftwards, easily spotting the five ships in question off in the distance. The royals and topgallants were very visible even from this distance; everything else would come in time.

" _Cach!"_  Edward hissed, and faced forward again. "How're they catching up so quickly?"

Connor was quiet, mind racing. Those other ships bore red crosses on their sails. He did not know if that meant that they were Templar ships or British ones. What he did know was that they, being such large ships, should not be able to catch up to the smaller, faster  _Jackdaw_. Yet they were.

They needed a plan.

"We need a plan," Connor muttered to Edward a second later.

Edward snorted. "You don't say?" He fell silent for a moment. Then, "The  _Jackdaw's_  well-equipped, but we can't fight them all, and we can't outrun them, either, if the fact that they're nearly upon us is any indication."

Connor paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"If we do fight, there is a strong chance that we will be defeated. Unless..." He turned serious tawny eyes to the other Assassin. "Return my possessions to me."

Edward looked sharply at Connor. For a second, they were quiet. Then Edward glanced back over his shoulder, finding that their pursuers were even closer.

"We have two, maybe three hours before they're upon us," Edward observed. He turned back to Connor. "What's going through your head?"

Connor followed his gaze.

"That we should allow them to catch up," he replied, a feral grin slowly stretching his lips.

Edward turned another sharp look on the other Assassin, but Connor was already moving away, heading down to the weather deck in the direction of the captain's cabin. The lighter-haired man swore and handed the wheel off to one of the nearby crewmembers before he pursued the darker man. By the time he caught up, Connor was already in the captain's cabin, stripping out of the shirt and breeches he had been wearing lately and donning the Assassin's robes he had been wearing when he arrived. Edward had long since cleaned the blood from them, so their whiteness was undiminished; the navy-blue and silver greatcoat, however, hung on the peg it had been on since then. As Connor suited up, Edward was struck by how similar they really looked.

And then he  _really_ looked at the other man.

There was something about Connor's face beneath the dark tan and the faint smattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks, something beneath his tawny eyes and the scars on his skin. There was something that just rang as "familiar," underneath the lines of stress that marred his young face. Maybe it was the fact that Connor had the nose that Edward saw every time he looked in the mirror, had the same cheekbones and jawline, even if they were slightly more rounded. As Connor pulled his hair back into a half-ponytail, Edward found himself shaking his head in disbelief.

"God blind me," he muttered, and went to begin strapping on his own baldrics and bandoliers.

"Pardon?" Connor glanced over at Edward curiously. Edward turned an annoyed glare on the other man.

"You and I need to have to chat," he griped, leveling a finger at Connor, "about how it is we look so much alike."

He turned away before Connor went pale, and Connor hastily covered it by pulling his hood up to conceal his face. By the time Edward turned back to Connor, the other man had fished a bowstring from one of his pouches, and was in the process of removing the sinew from its oilskin packaging so that he could string the strange bow that had been standing against Edward's wall for nearly the past month. The strange golden dagger, Edward realized, was tucked into Connor's belt.

"So?" Edward questioned. "How old are you, really?"

Connor glanced at him sidelong. "Twenty-one as of May." He paused to regard the blond man as Edward frowned in some displeasure. "Yourself?"

Edward snorted and began loading his pistols. "Twenty-two in March." One pistol got shoved into the bandolier on his chest. "How is it you've earned your hood point already, anyway? Master Assassins are usually a bit older."

Connor chuckled, and it was a black sound.

"Necessity," he muttered. Checking his quiver, he realized that he had a grand total of eight arrows left out of his usual ten. Must have lost some during his plunge a month ago. Belting it across his chest and shoulders, he glanced over at Edward. "How is it that you yet lack one?"

"Because I don't buy into their teachings as much as I should," Edward snorted. "As I said before, passion and ideals don't feed you when you're dying of starvation."

Connor was quiet for a moment. Then, a hiss of breath escaped him, and Edward looked over in time to see an odd, dark look cross the younger man's face.

"I know that very well." He took a second to sheathe his strange-looking axe at his belt, and Edward glanced away. "Where I am from... winters are much harsher than they are here, or in England. Many times, when we could not find game to hunt, we went hungry. My mother..."

He fell silent, suddenly, and Edward looked back over to Connor to find that the darker man had turned away. His throat was working, as though words were stuck there and he was trying to force them out, without success. It was then that realization hit Edward.

"She's dead, isn't she?" He watched as Connor nodded slowly and cleared his throat.

"Yes."

"And your _tad?"_

Connor's features hardened. "I have never met him."

Edward noticed that Connor did not say that he did _not_ know who his father was. "But you know who he is?"

"Yes." He holstered that strange pair of pistols at his belt. "As I said, I have never met him. I almost hope that I never do."

"That kind of man?" Edward sighed, and finally crossed the room to place a hand on Connor's shoulder. Caught up in his thoughts as he was, the darker man jumped slightly, becoming rigid beneath the touch. "Hey.  _Hey._ All I know is that we're related in some way. Whether you're a cousin from my lost  _ewythr_ Bleddyn or a half-brother from my _tad's_ seafaring days, it don't matter. I'd like to know after this whole thing blows over, but not right now."

He chuckled, and squeezed Connor's shoulder slightly. Slowly, Connor relaxed beneath the comforting touch.

"I do not know that I could tell you, honestly," Connor admitted slowly. "It might...  _change_ things."

"Change things?" Edward parroted, frowning in confusion. "Change things how?"

"You would not believe me." Connor turned away, fingers brushing against the dagger in his belt. "You did not, when I told you before."

"What, when you implied that you're from a different time?" Edward shook his head. "I still haven't decided if you're just mad, or if you cracked your head on something to make you dream that."

Connor ground his teeth.

"Are you sober?" he asked. Edward gave him an odd look as Connor's fist clenched.

"Fairly. Why?"

A second later, Edward grunted in surprise as he suddenly found himself nose-to-nose with a very disgruntled Assassin, the other's tawny gaze narrowed in annoyance.

"I shall speak clearly, then," Connor snapped. "I am neither concussed nor of unsound mind, and I can tell you, as certainly as the sky is blue, that  _I do not belong in this time._ " He backed off slightly, indignant. "And I assure you, I am neither your half-brother nor your cousin. Do we understand each other?"

Edward glared at Connor, but Connor did not relent.

"I understand that you're bleedin' mad!" Edward retorted, pushing Connor away. "As I said before, not even God messes with time! What makes you think that a little chunk of metal  _could?"_

Connor growled something inaudible. "I do not know. I only know that what happened to me is related to that...  _chunk_ of metal."

For a long moment, they stared at each other, neither willing to concede. Edward could not believe that Connor was telling the truth; Connor could not believe that Edward would deny it. Finally, as they heard a sound from outside the door, Edward scoffed and turned away, shaking his head in disgust.

"Bollocks," Edward muttered. "Complete bollocks."

Connor growled audibly and spun toward the aftcastle windows, unwilling to face the other man as he left. He heard the latch unhook, heard the door swing open as Edward prepared to leave, and listened to the sound of the small amount of trust they had just built vanish along with his grandfather.

How was he ever going to convince Edward of the truth if the man was unwilling to listen?

"What the _cach_ are you doing here?"

Connor whirled to face the door as the exclamation met his ears, and was alarmed to find Rhian leaning against the paneled barrier. She was pale. No, she was worse than pale. She looked like death warmed over. Edward stood before her, hands held awkwardly out to his sides, as though he could not decide whether he should steady her or get out of her way. Rhian, for her part, hunched slightly over her wounded stomach and gave him an annoyed glare.

"A little birdie told me there's trouble on the horizon," she gasped. "And when I came to see what's going on, I heard you yellin' about time and metal an' madness." She scoffed. "You really should be careful what you say so loudly. Unfriendly ears might hear your secrets."

Edward finally grumbled something before he took her by the shoulders and guided her over to sit upon his cot. Rhian complied, sinking gratefully onto the bed. She sighed with relief as the strain was removed from her wounded belly, and leaned back against the hull. As Edward crossed over to lean his hip against his desk, Edward gave Rhian a stern look.

"What's your real purpose in interruptin' us like that, _feinir?_ "

"I told you," Rhian replied, "you need to be careful about what you shout to the world." She nodded towards Connor. "He's telling the truth, by the way."

"What?" Edward looked flabbergasted, and Connor had to admit to feeling the same way. He barely believed it himself, and here Rhian sat, telling them that Connor was right? Unbelievable.

"He's-"

"-right?" Connor frowned at Edward as the older man turned to look at him, both of them visibly confused and disbelieving. As they both snorted in disgust at each other and turned back to the only female, Rhian raised an amused eyebrow at them.

"Indeed." She sighed and sat back, absently pulling a narrow flask from somewhere inside her waistcoat. As she uncorked it and took a short swig, Connor's eyebrows shot up.

"Why are you drinking that?" he inquired. Edward snorted.

"The why of it should be obvious, if she's hunching," he muttered, and then turned to Rhian. "More importantly, how'd you manage to smuggle it past Gibbs?"

Rhian gave them a little smirk and saluted the captain with her flask before taking another swig.

"That's for me to know," she stated, swallowing, "and you  _never_ to find out."

Edward pursed his lips, but said nothing. Connor sighed, and got up to close the door before taking a seat in Edward's desk chair.

"What did you mean when you said that I am correct?" he asked. Rhian gave him a long, considering look. Then she leaned forward slightly.

"My _tad_ \- that is, Derwydd, the man who raised me, not my blood father," Drystan continued. "The Assassin stable-hand. He was well-traveled. Knew a lot of stories and legends, heard a lot of rumors. One of those was the legend of the Altered Ones. The ones who'd been... _changed."_

Edward exchanged a look with Connor, who shrugged cluelessly before they both frowned at her, confused.

"I've never heard anything of the like."

Rhian snorted. "You wouldn't have. I'd imagine they don't go shoutin' it from the rooftops. Any rate, they're Assassins who've been... changed. Altered. Somehow become something slightly more than human." She paused, contemplating the flask in her hand. Her voice lowered.

"They're Assassins who can't die."

The room went dead-silent. As Edward and Connor struggled to comprehend that statement, Rhian sighed and took another drink from her flask before leaning back against the hull, one hand resting lightly upon her wounded stomach. There were a few minutes where nobody moved and nobody spoke.

"Cannot die?" Connor questioned at length, once he had found his words again. "What do you mean, when you say that they cannot die? How did this supposedly come about?"

Rhian shrugged. "I mean what I say. They can't die. What I hear, the oldest of 'em were born in the early second century. Romans and Britons. Rest of 'em came after."

Connor swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat. From where he was leaning heavily against the desk in front of him, Edward shifted uneasily.

"So, how does it have to do with his supposed time-traveling?" he asked, jerking his thumb at Connor. Connor glared at him briefly before eyeing Rhian as the woman smirked.

"Well, according to rumor, one of your Assassin ancestors is one of the Altered Ones," she commented, tilting her flask at Edward. "Or, if he isn't your ancestor, he's at least one of your predecessors. I'm sure you've heard of him."

"Who?"

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze." As Connor and Edward's eyes grew large, Rhian chuckled and took another drink from her flask. "According to legend, he took a trip to the Crusades time in the company of Leonardo da Vinci and Gian Giacomo Caprotti da Oreno, who was apparently in possession of something called the Dagger of Time."

Connor's soft intake of breath turned two sets of eyes on him, the ocean-blue wary and the seafoam-green curious. Swallowing, Connor reached down to his belt, withdrew the Dagger, and laid it upon the desk for them both to see. Rhian's quiet inhalation told Connor that she knew what it was.

"This... This Dagger is what brought me here," he said softly. "And the woman who sent me after it said that it is called the Dagger of Time."

Rhian shook her head slowly, green gaze fixated upon the Dagger.

"Was the woman its Master?" she asked. "Derwydd told me that the rumor is that only women can be Masters. He never told me why."

Connor thought about it for a moment.

"I would assume so," he said slowly. "What do you mean when you say that only women can be Masters?"

"Don't know why," she replied. "I just know that most men can't be Masters. Men can be Wielders, but they can't master it." She paused. "Actually, you're the first man I've ever heard of actually time-traveling without a woman involved."

"Wait." Edward spoke up. "What do you mean? Gian Giacomo Caprotti da Oreno, Leonardo da Vinci, and Ezio Auditore da Firenze were all men. How could they have time-traveled if it was just the three of them, and Connor is the first you've heard of doing it without a woman's help?"

Rhian's smile was sly. She looked like a cat who had gotten the cream. Comprehension seized Connor suddenly.

"Gian Giacomo Caprotti," he realized, and Rhian nodded slowly. Edward's gaze darted back to Connor, and then to Rhian again. "What was his...  _her_ real name?"

"I don't know," Rhian answered simply, shrugging. "Derwydd didn't know for certain. Said his memory was gettin' hazy. Might've been Arianna-something."

"Arianna Sinagra da Soriano?" Again, two gazes fixed themselves upon Connor, who pursed his lips.

"Yeah," Rhian said slowly. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

Connor swallowed. "Because that is the name of the woman who sent me to retrieve the Dagger after it was stolen." He let out a shaky breath. "I suppose that she did not expect me to be put into this situation."

Edward studied Connor for a moment longer before he turned to Rhian again.

"Well, this is all entertaining, certainly," he stated. "But how do I know what you're sayin' is true? Never heard of this Arianna character, and I've certainly never heard of this tale you're spinnin'."

Rhian shrugged. "You don't know, except that Connor, obviously, is not from this time period, judging from his robes, armaments, and the fact that he looks like a tanner version of you." She eyed Edward thoughtfully for a moment. "Got any kids, Kenway?"

Edward's already pale face went white, and he spun around to look at Connor, who gazed steadily back.

"Y-Yeah," Edward murmured slowly. "Just the one that I know of, back in Bristol. Jenny."

Connor sighed softly.

"Jenny is not my mother's name," he said in response to Edward's alarmed look. "Neither of my parents have been born, yet."

The look of relief that spread across Edward's face was almost comical.

"Good," he grumbled. Turning back to Rhian, he glared at her. "Don't scare me like that,  _feinir."_

Rhian gave him a slightly annoyed look.

"What does that word mean?" Connor asked. Rhian shook her head and sighed.

"It's Welsh for 'lassie.'" She turned a mild glare on Edward. "And you shouldn't be callin' me that, _rhocyn_. Turns out I'm almost two years older than you."

"What?" Edward demanded, to which Rhian smirked.

"First of October, 1691," she replied, grinning, and Edward pouted.

"March 10th, '93." He paused, and then turned to Connor. "What about you?"

Connor simply shook his head. Edward glared at the younger man, but Rhian nodded slowly.

"Wise," she commented, and Edward rounded on her, next.

"Don't you want to know?" he demanded. "He's keepin' secrets like this, and you're backing him?"

"Because if he's from the future, as he's implying," Rhian explained slowly, "then if he really is related to you, then your foreknowledge of his date of birth might change that date of birth. _He might not be born._ "

Silence fell in the cabin, yet again. Connor could see Edward's jaw and throat working, as though he desperately wanted to say something, but could not force the words past his lips. After a moment, Connor silently reached out and palmed the Dagger again, tucking it back into his belt.

"My date of birth is of no concern in the present moment," he finally said, and Rhian turned back to him, seafoam-green eyes calm. "What concerns me is how to use this to our advantage, and how to use it to get myself back home. There are certain things that I must accomplish."

"People to kill, you mean." Rhian's gaze was strangely knowing. "Templars?"

Connor looked away. "Yes."

"Some of whom you're not looking forward to killing." She studied him for a moment, and her tone was distant, almost as though she had forgotten her audience as she examined Connor. "You're close to at least one of them. In blood, if not in bond... But who is it...?"

"I am close to none of them," Connor stated firmly, flashing golden-brown gaze snapping back over to hers. Rhian simply gave him a sad look, and he felt his hackles rise. "Do not pity me. I do not need it. All that I need is to find a way back to my own time."

Rhian sighed and nodded, slowly. "All right. Where was it that Arianna was living, in your time?"

"Boston," Connor replied immediately. "In the Massachusetts colony."

Edward sighed, finally turning to face Connor again. It stung more than Connor would admit, being on the receiving end of the betrayed look on Edward's face.

"Then that's where we'll go after we finish our mission at Nassau," Edward said slowly. He sounded almost defeated. As he pushed himself off of his desk and headed for the door, his shoulders were hunched, as though he was trying to contain everything he was feeling. "Since you're so eager to return. Don't bother tryin' to find me. I'll see you in an hour or so."

As he left the cabin, Rhian and Connor watched him go, the girl sympathetic and the man confused.

"What just happened?" Connor inquired slowly. Rhian sighed and turned to him, frowning lightly.

"I think you hurt him," she replied quietly. Connor returned her frown, perplexed.

"How?"

Now, her expression turned to pity, and her gaze trailed to the door once more.

"I think we might just be the closest things he has to real friends," she explained softly. "At least, if I'm reading the signs right." She glanced at Connor. "Edward Kenway is a very lonely man with very few family and far fewer true friends, and when you leave, you'll take away something he's been searching for for a long time."

Connor swallowed, a knot forming in his chest. "Which is?"

"A brother. Son. Family." She eyed him. "You're his grandson, aren't you?"

It was a statement. Connor could not refute it. Rhian considered him for a moment as he nodded slowly.

"I see," she murmured. Sighing, she gingerly levered herself to her feet and crossed the room to set a hand on his shoulder. "Well, I'm off to get myself into some trouble with Mister Gibbs. Consider what I just said before you go haring off. You will hurt more than one person if you just leave without thinking things through."

As she turned to go to the door, Connor slowly turned his stare onto her retreating back.

"The others whom I will hurt if I leave," he pondered slowly. "Are you among them?"

Rhian paused at the door. For a long moment, she was silent, leaning against the wall for support. Then she turned her head slightly, just enough that Connor could see the curve of her cheek.

"No."  _You will not hurt me if you leave. You are my best friend. I will understand._

And then she was gone. Connor nodded silently to himself, understanding the words that she would not allow herself to say.

_If you leave, you will utterly destroy me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Welsh Translations:  
> **  
>  Cach - Shit (this is becoming standard for my translations sections...)  
>  **Tad** \- Dad  
>  **Ewythr** \- Uncle  
>  **Feinir** \- Lassie  
>  **Rhocyn** \- Lad 
> 
> Artwork created for Sum of Memories:
> 
> **[Teaser: You-?!](http://elvenwhitemage.deviantart.com/art/Teaser-You-396355309) **   
> **[How I've Missed You](http://elvenwhitemage.deviantart.com/art/How-I-ve-Missed-You-395417593) **
> 
> A note on Caroline: In Edward's bio, it states that his first wife's name was Caroline, and that their marriage, though passionate by all accounts, fell apart due to his irresponsibility. His going to sea was the clincher. He actually appears to have been at sea already by the time their daughter, Jenny, was born in 1713, unless the dates are wrong. Which means that Edward's a dad prior to this story's beginning.
> 
> **The Altered** are Assassins who, by various means, have been rendered immortal in the sense that they do not age past their prime; they all look like they are 20-25 years old. Their mental states match their chronological ages, however, and many of them are mentally even older due to their life experiences.


	8. Chapter 7: Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which battles are fought and wounds of all kinds are obtained.

_**Chapter 7: Attack.** _

_"What the cach just happened?!"_

_July 2, 1715._

It had been a full hour since Edward had walked out on Connor and Drystan in his cabin. The entire time, he had been up in the crow's nest, watching the inexorable approach of their soon-to-be adversaries (revealed to be a small fleet of British warships), and trying to ignore the pangs of hurt that struck every time he thought about Connor and his eagerness to leave. Even if the other man had not meant to hurt Edward, it still stung more than he had thought it would. Though they had only known each other a grand total of 20 days, Connor had quickly become one of Edward's few friends. If the other Assassin had not been so dead-set on leaving, Edward would have even dared to call Connor a  _true_ friend, a  _best_ friend...

A brother.

But he knew that it would all end. Someday soon, Connor would use that Dagger-thing to go back to his own time, and Edward would never see him again.

Edward growled, and smacked his head back against the mast for the fifteenth time in ten minutes.

Bloody hell. It was not possible. It just _could_ _not_ be possible.  _Time-travel_ was not possible. As Edward had told Connor multiple times, only God held power over time, and even He did not mess with it. Where did Connor get off saying that he was from the future? And where the hell did Drystan get off agreeing with him, feeding his delusions? Edward was no stranger to the Pieces of Eden, certainly, but he knew that even they did not hold the power to transport a person to the past, or to the future.

...right?

"Captain!"

Edward blinked and looked down, finding that Gregson was standing at the base of the mast beside the girl, Drystan, who had her arms crossed. Glaring down at her, he scoffed faintly. He briefly considered not answering. Then he glanced back to the horizon again and sighed, knowing that it was past time to get down to the deck and start issuing orders again. Getting to his feet, he grabbed a nearby line and swung down, the friction of the rope against his palms heating his skin for a moment before he got his feet around it as well. Within a second or two, he landed in front of Gregson and Drystan, who stood back to accommodate him.

"All right," he murmured. "Let's see this through."

"For better or for worse," Drystan muttered in agreement, and then she looked at him. "Connor was looking for you. Something about a plan."

"Oh." Edward headed for the helm. "Well, he didn't look very hard, then, did he?"

"Bollocks!" Drystan followed him, a scowl on her features. Edward glanced over at her as he took the helm from the sailor who had been manning it to that point, finding that her seafoam-green eyes were flashing at him, curls of auburn hair framing her face where they had fallen out of her low horse-tail. She was stunning in her anger, but Edward would never let her know that.

"Now is not the time for your pissing match with Connor to get in the way of the crew's survival," she hissed. When Edward would not look at her, she grabbed his shoulder and spun him to face her. He could see her scowling at him. "We have bigger problems to worry about. I don't know if you noticed, but until about 15 minutes ago, there were six hammocks dragging behind the  _Jackdaw,_ slowing us down."

Edward's heart pounded, and he faced her of his own will; alarm spread through his mind.

"What?" he hissed, ducking his head so that they could converse without being overheard. "Where were they? I saw no such things, and I was up in the nest!"

Drystan sighed, and she glanced aftwards. "Which is probably why you  _didn't_ see it." She nodded towards the aftcastle gunwale. "They were dangling out the stern and starboard aft ports. Only reason I noticed them is 'cause I went back to gather supplies for Gibbs."

Edward hissed in displeasure and turned away from her, knuckles white against the wheel. His lips thinned.

"You  _did_ cut them off, didn't you?" he asked after a second. Drystan sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Of  _course,"_ she griped. "But you know as well as I do what this means, and we're out of time. Can't escape, at this rate. What's more, several barrels of hardtack and wool are missing, meaning someone's been laying a trail for those arses behind us."

Edward swore under his breath and glanced around the deck. Everyone was hurrying about manning their places; soon, he would need to order them to battle positions. Even his Sight did not help him when he activated it.

He grudgingly turned back to Drystan and asked, quietly, "Any ideas about who it is?"

She went silent for a moment. Edward watched her eyes shift about the deck just as his had until she finally paused and a frown came to her face.

"I have a good idea," she admitted shortly. Her gaze flicked back to his. "I'm not entirely certain, though, and I'd rather not point fingers until I know for sure."

They stared at each other for a good, long moment. Drystan's seafoam-green eyes studied Edward's ocean-blue, and something passed between them: reassurance, confidence,  _trust._ It was something that Edward had not felt towards someone else for quite some time, not since he had been pressed into service three years before- but now was not the time to relive bad memories.

"Captain!" The exclamation came from the weather deck, and Edward looked down as Connor made his way up towards the helm. Edward had to fight to meet the younger man's tawny brown eyes; the hurt was still fresh, and the shame even fresher. "I have been searching for you for the past half-hour."

Edward swallowed the bitter retort that nearly flew from his mouth.

"I was in the nest," he replied sullenly. "Drystan tells me that someone's been making trouble for us."

Connor nodded, frowning with displeasure. "It is true, but we must wait to deal with the traitor until after the more immediate threat has passed. I have an idea."

Edward sighed, manning the helm yet again. "I'm open to anything you've got."

Connor came to stand beside both of them, and lowered his voice.

"If we try to fight them, the  _Jackdaw_ will be reduced to splinters in a matter of moments," he observed. "But if we do not offer any resistance at all, they may think that something is amiss."

Edward snorted. "Oh, something's amiss, all right." He jerked his chin towards the stern. "Something's amiss a'cos someone's been fuckin' with my ship."

Connor gave a tiny sigh. "We all know that to be fact. As Drystan and I both stated earlier, we cannot deal with the matter until we have figured a way out of this predicament."

"True enough," Drystan muttered. Edward leveled a finger at her.

"Unless you have some input, be quiet," he griped. When she looked offended, he scowled at her. "I'm not happy with either of you right now. Far from it. But I'm willing to listen to any plan you might have, so your input had better be constructive."

She glared at him, but said nothing. Edward turned back to Connor.

"Just tell me your plan and be done with it."

"You and I get off the ship before they catch up," Connor explained quickly. "The crew surrenders without a fight, and meanwhile, you and I swim between the British ships, sneak on board, and ignite their powder magazines."

Edward pondered this for a long moment. Then he slowly nodded.

"And if we're caught?"

"We fight for our lives." He placed his hand over the dagger in his belt. "Either way, we cannot afford to lose this. It is too dangerous an artifact to fall into enemy hands."

Edward and Drystan both nodded in tacit agreement. Edward glanced at the other Assassin.

"Better prepare yourself, then," he commented. "We're going to get a warning shot any minute, now."

As Connor nodded and jogged off to do as he was told, Edward turned to Drystan as she placed a hand on his elbow.

"What?" he asked. Her seafoam-green eyes were determined and not a little bit desperate.

"What would you have me do?" she asked softly, voice the barest of whispers. "I still can't do much in the way of fighting."

Edward's ocean-blue gaze searched hers, face inching closer to hers as he strained to hear her over the crash of water against the  _Jackdaw's_ bow and the shouts of the crew. He lowered his gaze past her shoulder, thinking about it for a moment. Then he looked back up to her.

"You help Gibbs." He swallowed, feeling the gentle puff of her breath against his cheek. "Whatever he needs, you get for him. Should it come to a fight, I don't expect we'll ever see land again. But you help Gibbs." He paused. "And try to stay alive."

She cracked a grin. "Don't worry about me. Survival's what I do for a living, remember?"

Edward nodded in acknowledgment, and she backed away a bit before hesitating.

"Captain?" she asked, just audible over the commotion around them. Edward hummed to let her know he was listening. "Just in case... I wanted to thank you."

Edward blinked, and then blinked again and turned to her with a confused frown on his face.

"Thank me?" he repeated. "For what?"

She gave him a rueful little smile. "For saving my life. For letting me come aboard. For..." Drystan paused. Then she shrugged, glancing bashfully away. "For your kindness. It has... It's meant a lot to me."

Edward swallowed at the confession, a lump forming in his throat. He huffed, and turned back to the wheel.

"It weren't nothing," he muttered, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks. Drystan chuckled softly, and the next time Edward looked towards her, she was gone. Two minutes later, the foremost of the British fleet fired a warning shot across the  _Jackdaw's_ bow, and Edward handed off the helm to Estevan, who was closest to him at the time.

It was time to get to work.

He made his way down to his cabin and took a second to gather his thoughts.

This plan of Connor's would be dangerous. That much, he knew. It depended too heavily on the enemy not sighting the two of them and shooting them dead in the water. That was not even to mention the question of whether they could fight through the lower-deck crews all on their own to even access the enemies' powder magazines and blow them all to Hell. And that all hinged on whether or not they would not simply be shot out of the water before they even had a chance to defend themselves.

"Fuck." Edward pressed a hand to his forehead and braced himself against the desk with a heavy sigh. "Fucked. We're all fucked."

For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to lean there, fear making his knees wobbly. Then he shook himself and took a last look around his cabin. Everything he owned in this world was in this cabin: his spare weapons and other armor, his portrait of himself and Caroline- which he was seriously considering discarding at this point- his various bottles of alcohol against the far wall, his sea chest, and his own violin, sitting unused in its case in the corner. It had been a good, long while since he had played, he mused. Too late now. Hanging on the wall above the head of his cot was a cross. Candlesticks, books, maps, compasses, and other things all sat scattered around the room, all useless to him now that he was facing the loss of it all. Sighing, he took a second to grab some extra powder and shot from his sea chest and to don his leather armor, and then, with one last look at the portrait of his wife on the wall, he left the cabin.

Connor was waiting for him on the weather deck, the Dagger shoved through his belt, bow slung across his back, two pistols holstered at his lower back, and a sword and his trusty axe sheathed at either hip. The other man was pulling his hood up over his head as Edward emerged, still cinching down one of the straps on his chest plates.

Edward eyed Connor, dressed only in his shirt, waistcoat, sash, and jacket.

"No armor?" the blond man inquired, drawing his hood up. Connor gave a low, dry chuckle.

"Would it do any good?" he retorted, to which Edward gave a rueful chuckle of his own. Connor eyed the sails rising over the stern. "They are nearly upon us. We should begin moving."

"I think that _you_ should start moving," Edward returned, to which Connor frowned. "If we don't put up any resistance at all, they'll know something's amiss." He grabbed Connor by the elbow, hurrying him towards the starboard bow. "You dive clear and start workin' towards the nearest ship. We'll distract them and give you some time to get in there." He pushed the younger man slightly, and when Connor looked back at Edward with concern, Edward shook his head. _"Go."_

Connor gave a solemn nod, almost a farewell, and dove off of the bow of the ship, slicing into the water with a practiced ease. Edward watched the younger man go for a moment. Then he turned and raced up to the helm, relieving Estevan and calling to Gregson to "man stations" and "prepare for battle."

A shot rang out, and a ball whizzed past Edward's head, missing him by mere inches. He swore furiously and ducked, yelling for the crew to _brace, brace!_ A second later, a barrage ripped through the _Jackdaw,_ tearing up the weather deck like it was nothing. Part of the helm sheared clear off just above Edward's head; a loud clank sounded from behind him, followed by a shout of  _They took out the port swivel!_ and a scream from his other gunner. Edward's heart pounded in his throat. All around him and down below, men screamed and threw themselves prone as cannonfire whistled above their heads. Edward saw one of the younger mates take a shot straight through the chest. Another lost his head, and still another went down missing one of his legs. It was Stephen, the young man with whom Edward had danced just a week or so past, during Drystan's doldrums game.

It was horrifying.

Edward felt the gorge rise in his throat as the barrage trailed off, and hauled himself up, grabbing the wheel and spinning it rapidly to the right, which tacked the ship to the left. The  _Jackdaw_ gave a pained groan as she was made to swerve in a wide arc straight into a wave. Edward gave an echoing roar of rage; slowly, they drew out ahead of the small British fleet, broadside aligning with them. It was obvious that the British knew that the  _Jackdaw_ was going on the attack, because they were beginning to spread out, some of them turning their sides towards the pirate ship, others moving to flank the rogues. Down on the weather deck, he glimpsed a group of men beginning to haul the wounded down below, where they would be treated by Drystan and Gibbs.

Edward drew a deep breath and watched as the  _Jackdaw_  drew abreast of one of the ships.

 _"Fire all port cannon!"_ he roared, and an instant later, his words were drowned out by the Earth-shattering blast of an entire deck of cannon firing simultaneously.

The British warship splintered under the barrage. Edward ground his teeth and avoided the gap in the helm as he spun it to the other side, moving hurriedly away from the other ship before they could retaliate. As he did so, he noticed a hole in his opponent's hull: they had opened up the powder magazine. Grabbing Gregson by the arm as the older man passed him, Edward pointed out the weak spot to his first mate.

"Fire me a swivel straight into that powder magazine, and let's take her out," Edward growled. "And pray to God above that Connor isn't aboard."

"Aye, sir," Gregson replied, and ran astern to do as he was told. As Edward tacked the ship back to starboard, he heard the boom of the swivel firing. The answering explosion that rocked him a second later was a satisfying testament to his crew's marksmanship.

For half a second, he dared to hope that the defeat of one of their ships would dissuade the rest of the fleet from pursuing the  _Jackdaw._ Then Edward saw that some of them were coming around their other side, heedless of the wreck of the ship now burning in their midst.

"Fuck," Edward muttered, and then shouted, "About ship! Ready starboard cannon!"

Gregson ran down to relay the orders, and Edward spun the helm to the left, tacking again. The  _Jackdaw_ came about in a wide arc, slowing as the wind spilled briefly from her sails before catching again. It took a few minutes before her starboard side was facing the oncoming British ships.

"Fire starboard broadside!" Edward called, and a second later, the  _Jackdaw's_  starboard side spat flames towards the other ships. This barrage did comparatively little damage compared to the last one, as he had suspected might happen. At any rate, it was time, now, to get in close and personal so that he could jump ship and begin implementing his half of Connor's plan.

"Gregson!" he shouted. His first mate came over, bleeding from a wound on his forehead, and took the helm. Edward grabbed the older man by the elbow. "If this plan doesn't succeed, you surrender the ship and let yourselves be taken captive. If we do that, there's still a chance for mutiny later, but we can't retake the  _Jackdaw_ if most of us are dead. Understand?"

Gregson nodded solemnly. "Aye, Captain. Come back to us."

Edward gave him a grim smile. Then, as they sailed past the wreckage again and into the oncoming ships, Edward dashed to the stern, took a deep breath, and launched himself overboard. There was a stomach-lurching instant where he was airborne; then the cold water closed over his head and the rest of his body, and the moment was past. Edward pressed his lips together tighter by reflex. His arms, strong and skilled from long years of experience, reached out and dragged him towards the surface with practiced strokes. A second later, his head broke into the air once more, and he took a deep breath and looked around, getting his bearings.

The  _Jackdaw_ was limping away from him to his right, and to his left was one of the enemy ships. He could see her crew drawing in the sails; they were slowing so that they could tack and maneuver more easily. Edward ground his teeth and made for that ship, hoping to everything good, right, and holy in the world that Connor had not already sabotaged it.

 _Please, God,_  the Welshman prayed silently,  _please, let my crew and ship survive the day._

There was a roar of cannon firing; Edward glanced upward as he heard Gregson scream for the crew to brace for impact. He could see the shivers flying from the _Jackdaw's_ deck even from his place down in the water. Briefly, he spared a thought for Drystan, who he knew to be holed up in Gibbs's quarters, ready and waiting to receive the wounded. Then he took a breath and pulled himself forward again, making steadily for the oncoming ship. It was the foremost of the British warships; at all the same size and tonnage as the _Jackdaw_ and nearly a third more, she was an intimidating vessel, and the wake she put off, even with her sails drawn in, tossed Edward about like a rag doll as he struggled towards the closest side of it.

The Assassin just barely had time to spare a half a thought for his own safety in the middle of Connor’s insane plan. Then the moment was past, and he lunged forward and grabbed onto one of the planks on the side of the ship.

It felt like his arm was nearly ripped from its socket from the speed of the ship, and the rough wood seared his palm with agony as it shredded the skin. He growled in pain over the thunder from above. Pushing past it with a great effort of will, Edward reached up with his other hand and began hauling himself up onto the side of the ship.

The going was slow, and more than once, Edward found himself wondering what was happening up top. The artillery fire had stopped a moment before. Now, as he hauled himself into the strangely deserted hold through a porthole on the starboard side of the ship, he also wondered at the absence of crew and officers. From his time in the service, reluctant though he had been at first, he knew that a warring vessel of this class should have probably two to three hundred able-bodied seamen and the officers to command them. But he barely encountered three sailors as he made his way to the magazine, and those were easily and quietly dispatched so that they made no sound and raised no alarm.

Where was everybody...?

At last, Edward arrived at the magazine and, grabbing a lantern from the hold, he opened the door to the reserve. There were the powder, the fuses, the flints. Everything was there, just as he had expected. Well, at least the British Navy was still completely and utterly predictable.

Thank God for small mercies.

Edward glanced back out into the hold. There was nobody there. So, he grabbed a powder keg, pulled out the stopper, and dumped out a line of gunpowder leading out of the magazine into the hold. Once he had done that, he went back over it to strengthen it, and laid the keg back in the magazine beside its brethren. Two seconds later, he had gone out and lit the far end of the line of gunpowder, and made a break for one of the nearer gunports.

It was time to abandon ship or die in the process.

Edward had just enough time to see the sparking, hissing flame rush through the door of the magazine. Then he dove through the porthole and into the water, icy coldness closing over his body from head to toe. As he powered forward through the water, he heard the muffled sound of an explosion above him. Seconds later, slivers of wood started streaking down through the water around him like so many sharp daggers. Edward kept swimming as quickly as he could.

Blinding pain erupted in his mid-back. He cried out in reflex, arching around to grab the spot, and then realized dimly that he had released much of his air. Grinding his teeth, he swam for the surface, miraculously avoiding most of the debris still streaking down around him. A mast thundered into the water nearby; the hull of the ship turned above him as it began to sink, and still Edward swam onwards and upwards.

His face broke clear. Edward gasped for air, groaning in pain as a knife seemed to shred his insides; for a long moment, it was all he could do to choke and splutter and stay afloat for the fire roaring through him. All around him were debris and corpses, bright uniforms and slops alike, all either dead or dying. He wondered, hazily, if he would join them. Grabbing onto a floating barrel, he held fast to it and took a moment to rest, vision going white as the motions jostled his wound further. Shouts erupted from the _Jackdaw's_ deck as he gasped through the agony.

Edward panted a couple times, and then looked up.

The _Jackdaw_ had been overrun. Despite his efforts, despite Connor's efforts, Edward's ship had been taken. His crew were in danger. Gregson, Gibbs, Connor, Drystan... God. Drystan was there.

“F-Fuck,” Edward moaned as he hastily had to reaffirm his grip on the barrel to prevent it from rolling out from under him. But there was only one thought on his mind.

Drystan was going to be captured. If the British found out about her gender, she could face severe punishment, rape, death. She was his friend, and he had let her get caught. Edward sobbed as his wound sent a sharp stab of hot agony spearing through him. The Assassin fought the urge to throw up. He needed to get back to his ship, or die trying. Even if it meant that he would be captured, as well, at least he could be there for his crew and his friends.

Since he could not save them, he figured, they could at least all hang together. He owed them that much.

A rope splashed into the water before his face. Edward stared at it dumbly for a moment, and then hazily traced its path up to the _Jackdaw_. Three British merchant marines were staring down at him, faces hard beneath their black hats, the red of their coats swimming in his sight. Edward gave a small sigh of defeat, and then reached out shakily to take hold of the rope. As he wrapped it around his chest, he felt them begin to pull him towards them.

Maybe he could yet figure a way out of this mess...

A yank on the rope, and he blacked out from the sheer agony of the wound in his back even as they hauled him into the air.

* * *

When Edward next became aware, only a few scant minutes had passed since he had fainted. At least, it seemed that way. He found that he was lying upon the familiar, sanded deck of his ship, the crew gathered around him. Edward blinked dazedly down at the grain of the wood beneath him, felt the hot throb of the wound in his back, swallowed around his cottony tongue, and drew a shaky breath. As his ribs expanded to accommodate his lungs, he felt them push against both his clothing and the deck beneath him, and felt the piece of wood in his back shift. He clenched his eyes shut and hissed with pain. _Cach_ , but it hurt.

A hand landed gently upon his shoulder.

“Are you awake?” Connor was crouching at his side. His voice was terse with barely-restrained fury. Edward grunted softly.

“Aye,” he slurred. “'Ma 'wake.” Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, why could he not think straight? “Wha' 'appen'?”

“We have been captured.” The hand on Edward's shoulder clenched briefly before relaxing again. “The _Jackdaw_ is to be towed to Port Royal. She will be refitted as one of the King's vessels. We are all to be... _guests,_ until that time.”

Edward let that sink in for a second. Then he swallowed thickly and slowly gathered his arms beneath himself to lever himself into a sitting position. The resulting jolt of agony crumpled his arms and left him gasping, unable to move. He lay there for a long moment, swimming vision hazing white and then red and then yellow and white again. His ears were ringing. As it was, he nearly missed the sound of Connor's ferocious growl if not for the motion of the other man moving to crouch defensively over him. As Edward's hearing cleared once more, he heard a sound that chilled his blood.

It was the click-click ratchet of a flintlock hammer being cocked back.

“You must be the captain of this vessel,” stated a male voice evenly. He sounded Welsh, and perhaps just a few years older than Edward was. Edward panted through the pain and attempted to push himself up again, groaning with exertion. “I suppose that I'll take that as a yes.” He paused. “Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Master Yates,” said a new voice. This one was crisply accented and calculating. English. Edward drew a ragged breath and groaned as he tried once more to sit up. “You might as well not even try, Kenway. Doing so will only lodge that piece of wood further into your back, and then you shan't have the pleasure of seeing the rest of your crew hang.”

Edward gave a yell of exertion and finally managed to get up onto one elbow. _“C-Cau dy FFWCIN **CEG!** ”_

He stopped, gasping and shaking, as Connor's hand tightened on his shoulder once more. Then a wave of coldness as frigid as ice slid down his spine as a familiar voice met his ears.

“I wouldn't be so defiant if I were you, _capitán.”_ Edward's head whipped around to stare in horror over his shoulder at the figure aiming the pistol at him.

“You-?!” he gasped.

Drystan stared coolly back at him, green eyes flinty, salt-stiff auburn curls dancing in the wind from underneath her tricorne. Her arm was steady as she held the pistol level with his head, her men's clothes fluttering in the sea breeze. There was a shallow cut on her left cheek, but otherwise, she seemed unharmed. To everyone else there, she looked like just another young and able seaman, weathered by her years of sailing. But to Edward, she suddenly represented everything he despised about humanity and their capacity for betrayal. The young man standing behind her, Yates, put his hand on her shoulder and smiled. It was a proud smile, a relieved smile, and Edward wanted nothing more than to wipe it off of the other man's face. Instead, he turned pained blue eyes on Drystan and tried to figure out when it was that he had such a grave mistake of beginning to actually trust her.

Drystan said nothing, but stared frostily back at him as the Lieutenant nodded to her.

“And thank you, also, young Mister Yates,” he stated, and then turned back to Edward. “Take him to the brig with the rest of the crew. Bandages and water for his wound, but nothing more. We shall need the supplies to treat our own wounded.”

Edward's head swam. How could this have happened? The traitor had been right under his nose the entire time, and he had never seen her for what she was. Had he truly been so blinded by her gender and affability that he could not see the deception? He, whose second Sight should have allowed him to spot his enemies in a heartbeat, had not been able to tell that the girl he had trusted had been plotting his downfall. He shook, feeling sick, and lowered himself to the deck again as his vision blurred and swam. As the Lieutenant moved off to see to putting his own crew in command of the _Jackdaw,_ Drystan handed the pistol off to Yates and moved forward to Edward. Connor snarled something at her that Edward could not quite make out. Drystan responded with a curt reply, and a pair of small hands wrapped around Edward's left arm, tugging roughly. He groaned, but could not muster the strength to rise again.

Edward shivered.

Another pair of hands wrapped around his right arm, hoisting him gently but firmly against a solid chest. Connor. Edward bit back a yell of pain as the movement jostled the shiver in his back. Connor murmured something, and Edward settled, dimly registering the feeling of being lifted as everything became strangely distant. As he was pulled over a broad shoulder and then hoisted to his feet, his bleary gaze nearly whited out before it landed on the deck beneath his feet. There was an alarming amount of blood staining the wood where he had been lying. No wonder he felt so cold.

It was becoming difficult to breathe, too.

Edward was going to bleed out before they could get him to Port Royal, at this rate. The wound must have been more serious than he thought it was. As Connor helped him down the ladder into the hold at gunpoint, he wondered dizzily how it was that one person could seal the fate of an entire crew. Well over a hundred souls, all condemned because of one of their own.

Edward was mostly gone when they laid him upon the floor of the hold. He vaguely made out the sound of Gibbs's voice, and of Connor's own murmurs, but he was too dazed to give any input. Even the sounds he heard were drifting in and out; he felt frozen, but he had no strength left with which to shiver. Something in his back moved.

“...pull... slowly, now...”

“-lose more blood-”

“...go back t' yer...”

“-ou traitorous bas-”

“-hand me tha' water-”

“-bandages-”

A red-hot wave of agony roared through him. Edward was vaguely aware of making some sort of sound, but his eyes fluttered shut, and he breathed out, and was still.

Edward Kenway knew no more.

* * *

“He's not breathing!”

The exclamation jolted Connor out of his dark thoughts, and he glanced with alarm down at his grandfather's suddenly-too-still form. A wave of ice crashed down Connor's spine as he realized that the boy's statement was true: Edward was no longer breathing. The man's skin was a pallid white, bloodless lips pale and dry, closed eyelids a blue-gray color with deep shadows beneath them. Connor looked up with horror to Gibbs, who grimly returned the stare over Edward's bared, blood-smeared back.

Connor swallowed through a sudden tightness in his throat.

“He cannot die, yet,” he stated quietly. “There is too much left for him to do.”

Gibbs shook his head slowly and sat back, hands lingering on Edward's shoulder.

“I'm a surgeon, lad, not Christ,” he said, sadly. “I can' work miracles.”

A stone dropped into the pit of Connor's stomach. He swallowed. His gaze darted down to Edward's still form, and a hundred and more thoughts raced through his head faster than he could think them. Foremost on his mind was, surprisingly, not the fact that, if Edward died now, Connor would never be born. No, the first thought on Connor's mind was how he would lose yet another family member, one with whom he had only just been united, one whom he had only just begun to know. He could never tell Edward just how much he had come to treasure the other man's company and wit, his humor, his laughter and levity. Even his tirades had come to find a special place in Connor's heart in that niche which belonged to his grandfather. To lose Edward now would strike a blow from which Connor knew he would never fully recover.

Connor reached out and grabbed Gibbs by the wrist, tawny eyes blazing with desperation as he met the older man glare for stare.

“You will do your damned best,” Connor commanded, voice a low growl. “Or none of us will get out of this predicament alive.”

Gibbs sighed and opened his mouth to give a negative reply. He was cut off, however, by a soft hiss of air from the still body between them. Two gazes snapped down to Edward. The man's features were pinched with pain even in unconsciousness, but he had begun breathing again, the sound rasping, shallow, gurgling, and faint, but present nonetheless.

Connor braced Edward's shoulders, and Gibbs quickly started working again.

They had pulled the long piece of wood from Edward's body before he had stopped breathing. Now, Gibbs packed wad after wad after wad of saltwater-dampened bandages into the wound it had left. Connor furrowed his brow and tried hard to ignore the barely-there whimpers that his grandfather released in unconsciousness that never would have had a chance of escaping if he had been awake.

“She's a deep 'un,” Gibbs had commented earlier as he had tried the wound after he had withdrawn the shiver from Edward's back. “It's pierced th' lowest part of 'is lef' lung, grazed a kidney, and gone through this other organ, 'ere.”

Now, he shook his head and muttered to himself lowly while he had Connor raise Edward up in order to wrap the wound.

“It'll be a miracle if 'e makes it through th' night,” Gibbs stated quietly. “An' even if 'e does, there's still infection t' worry 'bout.” He shook his head. “'Is chances aren' good, but at leas' 'e's breathin'. Keep 'im on 'is stomach, an' we'd bes' try ta get some water into 'im.”

Connor nodded mutely, gently lowering his grandfather back onto the floor. Distantly, he realized that he was trembling faintly. Sighing with exhaustion and dismay, he allowed himself to slump to the floor beside the older man, stiffening briefly with surprise as something hard and cold dug into his stomach before he remembered what it was. Resting his hand on Edward's back between the older man's shoulder blades, Connor settled in for a long watch, thoughts drifting.

After he had abandoned the British ship in favor of not being blown straight to the afterlife, he had quickly realized that the crews of the other ships had already boarded the _Jackdaw._ Knowing that he would be unable to get onto the pirate vessel unnoticed and still free, he had submerged into the water, hastily removed the Dagger from his belt, and tucked it down the front of his shirt and waistcoat where he knew that the British would not find it. Afterward, he had swum over to the other nearest ship, intent on doing to it what he had done to the first. Courtesy of the slow fuses he had set to his makeshift bombs, his ships had blown up at almost the same time as Edward's target had gone. Hope had blossomed in Connor's heart. Then he had heard the shouts from the _Jackdaw._ Being too far away from the fourth ship to do any good, he had tried to swim past his grandfather's ship in order to reach the man-of-war on its opposite side.

That plan had failed dismally when he had been spotted. Two bullets had whizzed past his head before he had stilled and, kicking furiously to remain afloat, had raised his hands to signify his surrender. The British sailors had been foolish enough to haul him aboard, thinking that he had simply been thrown overboard by their initial barrage.

Connor had come aboard the _Jackdaw_ again to find, to his shock and horror, that he was on the business end of a pistol, clutched in the hand of none other than the other of his only two friends in this time.

Rhian Yates had stared coldly at him as she had ordered him at gunpoint to join the rest of the crew, minus Estevan, who was standing freely with the rest of the Spanish privateers over near some of the British Merchant Marines. When Connor had demanded to know why she had betrayed them, Rhian had not replied, but gestured with the gun to the gaggle of Jackdaws clustered around three Merchant Marines and an unmoving form lying upon the deck. Fury had blazed up within Connor to all but consume his rational sense. It had only been through the most strenuous effort of will that he had held himself back from launching across the deck and slitting Rhian's slender throat then and there.

“Wha's got you so peevish?” Gibbs's quiet question drew Connor out of his reflections, and he scowled irately down at the planks past Edward's left shoulder.

“Drystan.” The one-word reply was a terse snarl, but Gibbs's features tightened in shared fury.

“Oh, aye,” he muttered blackly. “'E'll get wha's comin' to 'im, all righ'. You mark my words, that bastard'll get 'is fair due a'fore this's all over.”

He paused, and Connor looked up as a curious expression overtook Gibbs's features momentarily. When the old surgeon shook his head and turned away to get a cup of water, Connor called his name.

“What is it?” Connor asked quietly. Gibbs scoffed and shook his head.

“Nothin',” he replied. “Th' boy was actin' strange a'fore this all happened. Should'a seen i' comin'.”

“Acting strange?” Connor repeated slowly as Gibbs returned with the water for Edward. “How so?”

Gibbs shrugged. “Nervous-like. Like 'e wan'ed 'a do somethin', or was waitin' for sommat to 'appen. Since this mornin’, a' least.”

Connor frowned, but there was not much he could say. He could tell that Gibbs knew nothing more than what he had said. As it was, there was nothing that they could do until an opportunity for escape presented itself. Freedom, and vengeance, would have to wait.

So wait he would. Wait, and plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __**Welsh Translations:  
> **  
>  Cach - Shit (I don't even remember if this is in the chapter, honestly.)  
>  **Cau dy ffwcin ceg!** – Shut your fucking mouth!
> 
>  **Spanish Translations:**  
>  **Capitán** \- Captain
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> Artwork created for Sum of Memories:  
> **
> 
>  
> 
>  **Teaser:** You-?!: elvenwhitemage. deviantart dot com (backslash) art / Teaser - You - 396355309  
>  **How I've Missed You:** elvenwhitemage. deviantart dot com (backslash) art / How - I - ve - Missed - You - 395417593
> 
>  **A note on Edward's religious references:** During the 1700s, many people were still stoutly devout. Pirates and sailors in particular were superstitious to a fault, and highly religious. Given that Edward spent his childhood in Wales and his teenage years in England, it would make sense that he would most likely be part of the Church of England, if anything. Or possibly some other Protestant denomination. Most likely not Roman Catholic. Thus, his prayers.


	9. Chapter 8: Traitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which loyalties are called into question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the hiatus! Life went batshit crazy on me, and then I got smacked with a huge, steaming pile of writer's block.

_"You should've learned, by now, not to fuck with me."_

_July 2, 1715._

As Rhian Yates was escorted across the gap between the  _Jackdaw_  and the  _H.M.S. Sophie_  alongside Estevan and the rest of the Spaniards _,_  she kept her features carefully neutral. She refused to feel regret for what she had done, which was exactly what she had needed to do to survive. Beside her, Estevan and Juan laughed and joked about how Edward had collapsed in front of the entire crew and the boarding party. Rhian added her input when necessary. However, her overall mood was solemn, if not positively sour. If nothing else, she was more than unhappy to be back on a naval vessel.

She was in extreme danger.

If any of the crew decided to look too closely at her, they would likely recognize her for a woman. While she knew naval crews to be more disciplined than pirate crews, she had no doubts that at least one man would decide to risk a flogging in favor of taking a little pleasure. She needed to find an ally, and quickly.

The solution presented itself surprisingly soon afterward. As Rhian set foot on the weather deck of the  _H.M.S. Sophie,_  a pair of strong arms wrapped her in a tight hug, pulling her into a muscular chest, the owner of which smelled of fresh air and pine and tar and salt and a masculine musk that was vaguely familiar. She took a second to place it.

“Cadell!” she exclaimed, lowering the register of her voice. She pulled back slightly to look into his face as she made the shift to Welsh. “I'd all but forgotten that you were here, brother.”

Cadell grinned and swept Rhian's tricorne off her head to ruffle her auburn hair. His own hair, nut-brown like his skin, curled from the humidity and framed his face in such a way that the easy features were made to look younger than they were. Cadell was three years Rhian's senior, and alongside Derwydd, the stable-hand, had taught her everything good she had learned about life while growing up.

“It's good to see you, little one,” he replied cheerfully, and stepped back to view her in her entirety. “You've lost weight.”

Rhian shrugged indifferently. “It's been a rough month. I'm still recovering from a stab wound to the stomach.”

Cadell's features immediately darkened, becoming hard. He was silent a moment. Rhian could see the storm brewing inside him, and knew what his next sentence was going to be before he could say it.

“It was the captain,” she offered, and glanced back toward the  _Jackdaw_  in time to see Connor and a limping Gregson begin to haul Edward's sorry carcass down below. “The one who was wounded. Seems he got his due.”

Cadell snorted with disdain. “Indeed. If he survives his wound, he's to be executed along with the rest of the crew for desertion and piracy, among other things.”

“Desertion?” Rhian watched as Cadell nodded.

“Oh, aye,” he said. “He was a privateer in the King's service before the Treaty of Utrecht.”

“As were many of them.” Rhian nodded to the bound Jackdaws who were still on the pirate vessel's weather deck. “Many of them were pressed into service and found themselves unemployed after the Treaty. More of them were merchants before their vessels were taken, and were forced to sign the Shipboard Articles of Conduct, much like Estevan and myself.” A thought hit her. “Oy, my violin's still on that ship.”

Cadell stared at her for a moment. Then he barked a surprised laugh.

“Your violin?” he repeated as he began to steer her toward where the commander was standing. “You still have that old thing?”

Rhian nodded. “Aye, and it's in perfect working condition, despite all your efforts to the contrary. At least, it was until you lot decided to blow holes in that ship. Who knows how many pieces it's in, now?”

“Well, I'm sure there's another nice violin somewhere on board that you can fiddle around with until we can get you a new 'un of your own,” Cadell retorted with a roll of his eyes. Then he turned to the commander. “Lieutenant Maynard, may I properly present my brother, Drystan Yates? He is one of the ones who helped us take the pirates' ship.”

The Lieutenant turned to face them, and Rhian saw that he had dark hair and cool blue eyes. She had not noticed, before, as occupied as she had been with subduing the Jackdaws. He might have been handsome if not for the severity of his expression.

“Drystan Yates, sir,” Rhian said, saluting. “Able Seaman and violinist formerly of the  _H.M.S. Rose._  We were captured out of Tortuga just over three years ago by Spanish privateers, and our Captain and first mate killed. These pirates killed most of the Spanish crew 20 days and more ago.”

The Lieutenant observed her for a moment. Rhian did not like the way that his eyes lingered upon her body.

“I am First Lieutenant Robert Maynard,” the man said eventually. “I take it that you were coerced into signing the Shipboard Articles of Conduct?”

“Aye, sir.”

“That's what your Spaniards said, too,” Maynard replied evenly. He studied her a moment longer, and then turned away. “Be thankful that they acted to draw our attention, else we might not have found you as we did.” He waved Cadell away. “Dismissed, Master Yates. Find your brother something decent to wear. He's not a pirate any longer.”

“Aye, sir.” Cadell and Rhian saluted in unison, and then turned to go below. Once they were out of earshot, Rhian shivered forcefully.

“Goodness, but he has a cold stare,” she muttered to her brother, easily changing back to Welsh. Cadell chuckled sympathetically.

“Aye, he does.” He shrugged. “He's fair, at least, even if he does seem to have a liking for the cabin boys.”

Rhian shuddered. “That's what I'm worried about.” She caught his eye. “Did you see the way he was eying me? Like I was a bloody fresh piece of meat straight off the butcher's block.”

Cadell's features darkened. “Aye, I did. But don't worry, he won't make a move on you while I'm here. He knows that I'd sabotage the ship somehow if he did.”

Rhian gave a chuckle to lighten the mood. “Good to know.” She eyed him. “That big, dark man who was guarding the Captain. He's a captive like I was. He shouldn't be executed with the Captain and crew.”

“He protected the Captain. Therefore, he's loyal to the pirates and not to the Crown.”

“He didn't know you, else he wouldn't have resisted. I know that much about his character, and can vouch for him being the most innocent and moral person on that ship. He's a strange one. From the American colonies, he is, so he's a subject of the Crown.”

Cadell pondered that for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.

“I'll bring it to the Lieutenant when I see him next,” he promised. “But keep in mind, I've no bearing on how he conducts himself or the executions.”

Rhian nodded, features neutral. “Of course. I know that you'll do your best.”

Cadell glanced sharply at his sister, and then shook his head.

“Still sharp as a knife, I see,” he quipped, and pulled her under his arm, ruffling her hair again. “Let's get you some proper clothes and get you ship-shape again.”

At last, Rhian allowed herself a chuckle.

“Sounds wonderful,” she replied. “You don't want to know how old these slops are.”

“Considering I recognize them, I'd say about six years or so.”

“Damn, and I thought I'd get you...”

* * *

 

_July 15, 1715._

Everything was dark. Everything was peaceful. For the most part, everything was quiet, but for the steady  _drip-drip-drip_ of water on the deck. The soft snores of sleeping men filled the air, accompanied by the creaking and groaning of wood, the swaying of hammocks, and the soft, soft sound of a footstep and a whisper as someone crept up on deck to use the beakhead for a midnight dump. Then, from the back of the hold came a soft groan, and another soft whisper of someone else gently shushing the person who had made the sound.

Not for the first time, Connor Kenway pursed his lips and sighed as he settled his palm on his grandfather's sweating forehead, saying another silent prayer for the older man's peaceful rest.

It had been 13 days since the ill-fated confrontation with the small British fleet. While Connor and Edward had managed to take out four of the enemy ships, Connor had been captured and Edward wounded before they could destroy the fifth and sixth ships and make good on a successful escape. The crew had been captured or killed. Worse, they had discovered too late that their friend, Rhian “Drystan” Yates, had turned traitor and orchestrated the entire encounter. The gorge still rose in Connor's throat at the thought of his former friend; betrayal was not something to which Connor was accustomed, and it was a feeling which he despised. Edward, meanwhile, had only been given a basic dressing for the massive wound in his back, where a shiver from one of the destroyed ships had driven straight through the lower lobe of his left lung and grazed the top of his kidney. Gibbs, the  _Jackdaw's_  surgeon and carpenter, had only been able to remove the wood and pack the wound with saltwater-soaked bandages before binding it up. He had not been given ample lighting or the tools to properly try, clean, and suture the wound. It had begun to fester after only a day or so.

Edward, consequently, was knocking on death's door.

Even now, looking at the Welshman in the almost nonexistent light of the hold, Connor could tell that Edward's skin was wax-white. There were dark circles underneath his eyes, and his lips, where they were not blood-flecked from his every gurgling breath, were just shy of being blue. His face was hot to the touch even though he shivered constantly from his raging fever. Also, he had become gaunt; days of not being strong enough or awake long enough to eat anything had seen him lose a decent amount of weight.

It would be a miracle, Connor mused, if his grandfather ever recovered from this.

As Edward groaned and gave a wet cough, Connor looked back down to the older man in time for that single cough to dissolve into a painful fit. Connor quickly raised Edward up so that he could choke out the blood more easily. Crimson stained his chest as his lungs seized and seized again. Connor watched helplessly and clutched the younger man tightly to his chest as the first splotches became clotted streams mixed with a cloudy mucous. When the fit slowly died off, Edward's head lolled limply against Connor's shoulder, the fever heat there felt easily even through the thick fabric of Connor's shirt. He had long since discarded his belts, bandoliers, coat, and waistcoat, though the shirt and his sash had remained.

Connor shook his head sadly and reached down for the stained cloth at his side. Edward simply shivered weakly even in his unconscious state as Connor took a second to wipe the blood and mucous from the older man's bare, tattooed chest. It did little good.

Another soft groan tore itself from Edward's lips. Connor glanced at his grandfather's face to see the faintest glint of fever-glazed blue eyes.

“Edward?” Connor questioned softly. Edward's only reply was his wet, labored breathing, but he blinked slowly and his eyelids fluttered. His gaze twitched briefly in Connor's direction; his heavy blond head lolled against Connor's shoulder, and then the eyes closed again. He sagged a little more firmly against Connor's side and was still. The only signs of life were his ragged breathing and weak shivering. Connor swore under his breath and hoisted the other Assassin a little more firmly against him before leaning back against the  _Jackdaw's_ hull once more.

Still, it gave him a little hope to see that Edward had opened his eyes. It meant that the older Assassin was still clinging tenaciously to life. Connor knew that, were he in Edward's place, he might have given up long ago. He had to wonder what it was that kept Edward fighting like he did. Perhaps he was holding on for his daughter, or-

A quiet footstep caught Connor's attention. His tawny golden gaze, sharp as a knife, darted up to seek the source of the sound. His Second Sight told him exactly where the approaching person was, and he growled lowly as he recognized the silhouette, the familiar gait, and the inherent grace with which the person moved.

It was Rhian.

What Connor did not know was why she still registered as  _blue_  in his Sight. She was an enemy, had proven it beyond any doubt, so why was it that his heart still told him that she was a friend?

“What in Atlantow's cursed name are you doing here?” he demanded angrily when she was within earshot. He gently eased Edward down to lay against the hull; the man coughed weakly, and Connor glanced back over to him to find that his half-lidded gaze was observing them hazily. His labored breathing had become shallow with awareness, and he choked out a bit of blood even as Connor watched. Connor looked back over to Rhian as she seemed to hesitate.

There came the sound of metal striking metal, and a second later, a small flame sputtered into existence. Her fair features, illuminated by the warm light, were stressed and worn.

“Connor,” she whispered evenly, and approached them, pale eyes fixed on Edward. Connor put himself between her and Edward with a growl, and she halted. “How is he?”

“Dying.” Connor spat the word at her. Rhian flinched visibly. “Atlantow will take him, soon, no thanks to you and your allies.”

The auburn-haired woman took a breath and glanced away. Then she looked back at Connor, and her features were hard.

“Don't judge me,” she hissed to him. “I did what I had to do.”

“As what?” he demanded furiously. His features grew dark. “As a faithful servant of the crown? As a mercenary? As a  _traitor?”_  He rose to his feet, looming over her, utterly terrifying in his black rage. “Be gone before I kill you with my bare hands.”

Rhian stared him down for a long moment. Then, as Connor took a deep breath and took a step toward her, she stepped right up to him, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw and clenching her fists at her sides.

“You won't kill me,” she hissed. “You don't have the balls to do it.”

In an instant, Connor's hand had flashed up and wrapped itself solidly around her throat, clamping down and cutting off her air as his other arm braced across her shoulders, forcing her back against the hull. He stared coldly at her as her eyes grew wide and she choked, hands scrabbling at his wrist. Connor leaned in close, features a feral snarl.

“You think that I lack the resolve to kill my enemies,” he stated, voice a low, sibilant hiss. “You are wrong. I know that the greatest effect comes only with the opportune moment.” He released her throat and shoved her back against the hull, face still only inches from hers. “The opportune moment has not arrived, yet.”

She stared up at him for several long seconds. Then she  _moved._

In an instant, Connor found that their positions had been reversed; he was now the one pressed to the wall, rough wood chafing his cheek as a surprisingly strong arm wrapped around his neck, the point of a dagger digging into his kidney. He froze.

“Keep in mind that you're not the only one with training and secrets,” she breathed, voice a sibilant hiss. She paused, briefly. He felt her glance towards Edward. The dagger pressed a little harder. “I'd kill you now and spare you the noose if I thought that it would help anything. As it is, all it would do would be to spoil the Lieutenant's fun and get me flogged in your place.”

The dagger's press lightened. Connor gasped as she spun him around abruptly, shocked at the strength with which she was able to simply throw him around. Connor knew that he was no small man, and for such a diminutive woman to be able to just toss him about like she was? He had to wonder what sort of sorcery was taking place. The dagger, however, was now pressed to his throat, sharp, steady, and ready to slice deep with the slightest provocation. He held still, tawny gaze flicking over to Edward, who was watching the exchange with hazy eyes. Connor could see the worry that pinched those ashen features, and knew that Edward was lucid enough to know what was happening. As he turned back to Rhian, he saw her turn back to him, and knew that she, too, had been watching Edward. Her seafoam-green eyes, a pale golden-yellow in the lamplight, flicked from his eyes to his mouth and back again.

“Do us all a favor and don't try me,” she whispered. Connor opened his mouth to give an angry retort.

Suddenly, there were lips pressed to his. Shocked, Connor's eyes shot open wide, and he grunted, trying to pull away. But Rhian would not let him go, mouth working his with an ease that spoke of some measure of experience. Despite his protests and despite the knife at his throat, Connor could not help but give a soft murmur of pleasure and relax into the kiss.

It was... it felt... good. Foreign, but good.

Rhian gave a little sigh, and he felt her smile faintly. Then she slowly pulled away, looking pleased with herself as she ran her tongue across her lower lip. The knife disappeared, and she stepped away, patting his cheek before she vanished into the darkness of the hold, leaving the lantern behind. Connor stared after her, dazed, for a long moment before he realized that something felt different. Frowning with confusion, he absently placed a hand over his stomach where he kept the Dagger, to reassure himself of its safety. Connor felt the color drain out of his face, and he pressed his hand more firmly to his belly before checking down his pants, to no success.

The Dagger was gone.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed softly, turning and punching the hull so hard that he split his knuckles. Rhian had stolen the Dagger right out of his pants while he was distracted by her kiss. Fury roared through him, hot and cold at the same time. That was the second time that he had fallen for her deception.

There would not be a third.

It was as he took a seat beside Edward again that he realized that there was still something down his sash. Frowning, he reached inside the red fabric and felt around until his hand brushed against a cloth-wrapped bundle. Connor's heart pounded as he drew it out and gingerly pulled the thin cloth away from the items within. When he saw what was inside, he frowned in confusion. Shaking his head, he turned to his right, where Gibbs was curled up in the corner. The old carpenter-come-surgeon had been dozing soundly when Rhian had arrived, but now he was observing Connor with curiosity.

“Whatcha got there, lad?” Gibbs asked quietly as Connor beckoned him over. In the dim light from the lamp, Connor showed Gibbs the contents of the bundle.

“Tobacco, a knife, and a small jar of turmeric,” Connor explained. “And a lime. I do not understand the significance, but we should use the cloth to replace Edward's bandages.”

As he made to do just that, Gibbs gave a hissed little exclamation and grabbed Connor's hands. Connor nearly recoiled from the touch before he reminded himself that Gibbs was not a stranger. Gibbs's features lit with a smile and he gave a little chuckle.

“Lad, tha' boy jus' gave us a way to 'elp th' Captain,” he stated, much to Connor's confusion.

“Excuse me?” Connor questioned.

“'Elp me turn 'im on 'is stomach,” Gibbs countered, and once Connor had done so, Gibbs spread the ingredients out beside Edward's arm. Glazed blue eyes gazed at the items as ragged lungs gave a quiet cough, but Edward said nothing and did nothing, most likely too exhausted and delirious to really register what was happening around him.

The entire left side of Edward's back was swollen, hard, and hot to the touch. Connor knew that it was because of the infection. Still, it was not a pretty sight when they gingerly unwrapped the wound. Tendrils of red spread out from the puncture in every direction, and yellow pus oozed from the hole with the slightest touch. Edward groaned faintly. Connor saw his grandfather wince as Gibbs pressed on the area around the wound.

“Th' turmeric an' tobacco are to 'elp drain th' wound,” Gibbs explained as he took up the knife. “Th' lime's ta clean it. An' the knife's ta widen it so's we kin git all th' splinters 'n' cloth outta there. Bring me tha' lantern.”

Connor did as he was told, settling the lantern nearby. The soft, golden light illuminated the wound and allowed them to see it more clearly, though it was still not nearly as good as sunlight was. The lime was used first, with Gibbs halving it and squeezing some of the juice onto the skin around the wound. He rubbed it around and wet the area. Then he took up the knife again. Connor could not watch as Gibbs set the knife to Edward's inflamed skin; all he could do was to hold his grandfather down as the older man clenched his eyes shut and groaned and shook with the pain. It took a half-hour or so for Gibbs to widen the wound and clean it out properly, making sure to get all the splinters and cloth he could see. Then he sat back, satisfied, and opened the jar of turmeric.

The pungent odor of the spice met Connor's nose. It was not the freshest turmeric he had ever seen, but it was far from being spoiled, and Gibbs proclaimed that it would work well enough. As Connor watched, Gibbs took a little water from their small ration and mixed it in the palm of his hand with about half the jar of turmeric. It formed a thick paste, which Gibbs then smeared over the seeping wound and covered with a bandage. Connor closed the jar again as Gibbs sat back, satisfied, and laid a hand on Edward's sweating forehead. Edward, himself, had made few real sounds during the procedure.

“Ye did well, laddie,” Gibbs murmured to Edward as the younger man gave a soft moan. Then, to Connor, Gibbs said, “We'll change th' dressin' in an 'our 'nd an 'alf, an' then we'll get some 'ot water for th' tobacco.”

Connor nodded silently, settling himself at Edward's side, and rested his hand on his grandfather's back between his shoulder blades, feeling the play of his muscles with every weak breath. Even Edward's heartbeat was weak, but it was holding steady so far. It would be a long wait. The best thing to do would be to get some sleep, if possible, and allow Gibbs to treat Edward. But Connor's mind would not allow him to rest.

Why had Rhian helped them? Why had she betrayed them?  _Had_ she betrayed them? If so, then why had she kissed him and given him medicine? Why, why,  _why...?_

Connor had no answers.

* * *

 

_July 20, 1715._

Edward was awake. How he knew this, he was not certain. But he was awake, and that was more than he had been able to say for a long time.

It seemed as though an eternity had passed since the last time he had been able to tell dream from reality. Lucidity had been a fleeting thing. There had even been times when Edward had been convinced that his dreams were, in fact, reality, and when reality had felt like dreams. Take, for instance, that night when he could have sworn he had seen Drystan kiss Connor. That never would have happened in real life, so therefore it must have been a dream. Then, of course, there was the fact that he was still  _alive._  How he knew this, he could not say. But he was alive, and would have thought that that must have been a dream but for the pain that he felt throbbing through the entirety of his body. Somehow, he was moving. He swallowed, feeling ill.

Edward opened his eyes.

Immediately, he shut them again, blinded by the bright light of the mid-morning sun. It seemed as though it was no special time, but they had brought him up on deck for whatever reason, and that was confusing enough without adding in the fact that he could not find Connor anywhere. Edward cracked his eyes open again, blinking furiously in the bright light. No, Connor was not present. Instead, Edward was being supported by Gibbs on one side and by Gregson on the other. His quartermaster was limping horribly, and it was that unsteadiness of gait that had woken him. Gibbs looked pale, as well, though Edward could not tell whether that was from the lump on his forehead or from nerves of some kind.

It was then that the pain hit him full-force. Edward gasped and crumpled before he could gain mastery over his reaction. Gibbs gave a startled exclamation as the motion threw Gregson off-balance, and then they went down, toppling to the deck in unison to land painfully on their knees. A round of raucous laughter met Edward's ears as he doubled over, hands clenched into fists, fever-hot forehead pressed to the deck as tears welled in his eyes and sweat quickly beaded upon his skin to drip down the sides of his face. Edward clenched his eyes shut.

God Almighty, it  _hurt._

His lungs seized, and he choked and coughed until he tasted blood and spat it onto the sanded deck. He was still hacking when two pairs of hands grabbed him roughly by the arms and jerked him upright. Agony blazed through him, and he could not bite back the cry that erupted from his mouth. His head ached and rushed. He nearly blacked out. But a sharp slap to his face brought him back to full lucidity, and he gasped for air as he was made to stare at the man who they had dragged him out to see.

He was a young man, probably not much more than ten years Edward's senior, dressed in a coat of about the same grade of cloth that was affordable by a naval officer of middling rank. Underneath his navy-blue greatcoat was a long waistcoat, and beneath that, a cravat, shirt, and breeches. Stockings, boots, and a pistol completed the image. His dark hair was straight but for where it curled from the humidity, framing his cheeks in a way that would have softened his countenance but for the thick beard on his jaw and the hard press of his lips. His blue eyes stared with derision at Edward as someone grabbed his ponytail and yanked up his head.

Edward, for his part, was just trying to hold onto what little dignity he still possessed. There was an angry roiling in his stomach, which was protesting the pain that had all but consumed him. Any second, now, he feared he would vomit all over the deck. His entire body trembled with the effort of restraint.

The man gave a tight-lipped smirk.

“So the great Edward Kenway has seen fit to make my acquaintance at last,” he sniped, and gave a most ridiculous bow. “I am Lieutenant Robert Maynard in His Majesty’s Service.”

Edward stared at the man for a moment, dazed mind having trouble comprehending his words. Then he politely spat a clot of blood and mucous in the man's face.

Maynard's eyes narrowed in disgust and disapproval as he gingerly used a handkerchief to wipe his face.

“That was rather impolitic of you, pirate,” he stated evenly. Edward could do no more than glare ineffectively at the man. Maynard sighed. “Oh, well. I suppose that it doesn't matter much, seeing as we were about to execute you, anyway.” He straightened and backed away, looking rather disinterested. “For the crimes of insubordination, desertion, theft, murder, bribery, smuggling, piracy, looting, pilfering, plundering, sailing under false colors, impersonating a priest of the Catholic Church, arson, kidnapping, poaching, brigandage, depravity, depredation, and general lawlessness, you're to be keelhauled three times. Fitting, I believe, for a pirate to die by one of his own punishments.”

Edward took a few quick gulps of air, feeling sick yet again as the ache in his head turned to a relentless pounding.

Keelhauling. What a way to go. Despite Maynard's supposition, Edward had never had anyone keelhauled; it was a gruesome thing, to stuff an oil-soaked cloth in a man's mouth to keep him from drowning, and then tie weights to his feet, tie him to the main yard, and drag him under the ship's keel so that the barnacles on the hull stripped the flesh from his body. He had only seen it done once, and that had been enough for him. Most of the punishments he meted out were limited to mastheading and making people kiss the wooden lady. The most extreme thing he had ever had to do was to tie a murderer to the corpse of the man he had killed and have them both thrown overboard. The man had drowned as a result; a fitting punishment.

Edward had only ever heard of one man surviving being keelhauled. He entertained no notions of doing the same, as sick and wounded as he was. If he had any sort of luck in the world, he would die during the first pass.

Maynard turned to face him, suddenly.

“Unless, of course, you decide to work with us,” he said. Edward blinked slowly, uncomprehending. Maynard sighed a long-suffering sigh. “Very well, since you don't seem to be intelligent enough to comprehend: in exchange for information, I will reduce your punishment.”

Edward was silent. The bile burned his stomach as it churned furiously, and he knew without a doubt that he was going to be ill. As Maynard stepped toward him, Edward fought to spare himself the indignity of getting sick in front of his men and Maynard's crew alike. It was no use.

His stomach heaved. A foul-smelling mix of bile, blood, water, and mucous splattered the deck and Maynard's boots alike, and Edward sagged in his captors' grips with both relief and pain. His stomach heaved again. This time, it only hit the deck. Maynard had moved back, face a mask of revulsion. As Edward gasped for breath around the inferno raging through his back and innards, tasting vomit in his mouth and smelling it in his nose, he heard Maynard sniff.

“Rig him up.”

Well, at least he would not have a headache to add to the torture.

The rough hands held tight around his arms as they yanked him to his feet, sending agony blazing up his spine. As they dragged him to the mainmast, already beginning to wind rope around his wrists, Edward found he had to laugh a little at the irony of it all. Keelhauled to death on his own beloved ship.

What an epitaph.

At least Connor was not present to witness this. Edward would not wish for his friend to see his end, ignoble as it was to be. The main yard loomed above him. They had already tied a rope to it, and the pile of weights and a bucket of oil were waiting by the familiar gunwale. Within moments, they had looped the rope through his bound wrists, and then tied it around his waist for good measure. They sat him down on the gunwale, back to the sea, and secured the weights around his ankles.

“All present here bear witness,” Maynard announced, coming up to stand in front of Edward. Edward, for his part, sat there, hunched over, barely able to lift his head for the weakness of his body. “In penance for crimes committed against God, the Crown, and humanity: on this day, the 20th of July in the year of our Lord 1,715, this man, Kenway, Christian name Edward, is to be keelhauled thrice or until dead. May God have mercy on his soul. In the name of God and King George, let it be done.”

Edward's head was jerked up again by his ponytail, his jaw forced open, and a foul-tasting rag was stuffed into his mouth. He choked and gagged for a second, the oil sliding across his tongue and down his throat. Then a hand was on the center of his chest, pushing.

Edward was airborne for half an instant. Then the water closed over him, and he closed his eyes, praying quickly as he was dragged under by the  _Jackdaw's_  wake.

_Our Father, who art in heaven,_

_Hallowed be Thy name._

The hull, pimpled in barnacles and glistening with weeds, loomed ever closer.

_Thy kingdom come,_

_Thy will be done_

_On Earth as it is in Heaven._

_Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses,_

_As we forgive those who trespass against us._

Edward's left shoulder and then his back crushed against the hull. He screamed into the gag, eyes flying wide. The wake from the ship tugged at him, pulling him down, down. White-hot agony ripped through him as the flesh was scoured from his bones.

_Andleadusnotintotemptationbutdeliverusfromevil-_

He screamed again just to relieve some of the stress.

_ForThineisthekingdomandthepowerandthegloryforeverandever-_

The pain grew to blinding levels. The rope around his hands went slack suddenly. He sank down into blackness even as unconsciousness snagged him and dragged him into sweet oblivion. Edward's vision went dark.

* * *

 

The balmy waters of the Caribbean Sea closed over Connor's head. Above him, the sounds of the battle that had erupted on the  _Jackdaw's_ deck died away. Instead, watery quiet descended with him as he strained to see through the blue, blue waters, searching desperately for his grandfather's figure.

Edward was sinking quickly, the weights around his ankles doing their job all too well. Blood streamed freely from his left shoulder and his already-injured back, clouding the blue with muddy crimson. Connor swam hard for his target. His Hidden Blade was ready at hand to cut away the weights. He had to get Edward out of the water before he drowned and before the blood attracted sharks. The gap between them closed too slowly for his liking. Still, Connor fought onward. The pressure of the water around him increased; his lungs constricted. He reached out.

Tan fingertips felt the lightest brush of feather-soft blond hair.

Connor reached down and seized Edward around the chest. The older man was completely limp in his grasp, blood scalding in the cool water. In a heartbeat, Connor's Hidden Blade was out. He ran it easily through the ropes binding Edward's wrists, and then pulled himself down his grandfather's limp body to his ankles. Those ropes, too, were swiftly cut. Edward sprang free, already rising upwards. Connor grabbed him around the waist and rushed for air.

Was this how Edward had rescued Connor? he wondered. Edward had told Connor that he had dragged his near-dead carcass from the water, unconscious and bleeding like a stuck pig. Funny how things had come full circle. As it was, Connor's air was nearly gone by the time his face broke the surface. He sucked in a desperate breath and dragged Edward up so that he was in the open air. A rope was dangling in the water at the side of the ship, the same one which they had been using to keelhaul Edward. Still, it was better than nothing, and Connor did not have the strength to tread water with Edward in hand _._ That was not even to mention the fact that they were about to be left behind.

He reached out and grabbed the rope.

Immediately, he felt the tug in his shoulder, but it was enough that Edward pulled clear of the water with little effort. Connor wasted no time in winding the rope securely around his arm and reaching up to tug the oil cloth from Edward's mouth. The man reflexively sputtered out a mouthful of water, but was otherwise alarmingly still.

Connor was not a Christian. Even so, he knew that it would be a true miracle if Edward survived this latest injury in addition to the first he had sustained.

“Atlantow may yet take you,” he muttered to his grandfather, “but not before I have fought with all my might to keep you here a while longer.”

There was a tug on the rope. He glanced up to see a pair of familiar faces working to pull them aboard. The sounds of the fight had died off. In the near distance, he could see smoke. As he was hauled over the gunwale and Edward was taken from him, Connor took a second to gaze into the face of the friend he had thought that he had lost.

“Drystan,” he murmured in some amazement.

Rhian Yates gave him a strained little smile and a tiny nod, already kneeling down beside Edward's motionless form to examine the damage done. Beside her, the young man who had stood behind her upon their capture reached out a hand to help Connor stand. Connor eyed it with some hesitation.

“For the moment, I've been forced to sign the  _Jackdaw's_ shipboard Articles of Conduct,” Yates informed him with a small smile that was all but identical to Rhian's. “As my  _brother_  tells me, that should safely exclude me from paying the hangman's fee when I return to Wales. Cadell Yates, Ship's Master to the  _H.M.S. Sophie_. Unofficial pirate, now.”

Connor nodded, and pushed himself to his feet under his own power, refusing Cadell's offer of help. It was taboo to touch a stranger, and Connor was not about to break that for something which he could do by himself. As he got his feet under him, he glanced around to find Rhian murmuring soft pleas to Edward. She had turned him on his belly, his head turned to the side. Even as Connor watched, she tenderly stroked a few tendrils of wet, blond hair out of the unconscious man's face.

“C'mon,  _rhocyn,_  breathe for me,” she whispered, stroking his scarred right cheek, face close to his and seemingly uncaring for anyone who might be watching. “Please. Please breathe for me.”

Connor knelt beside his grandfather, eying him anxiously. The bandages over the wound in Edward's mid-back had mostly shredded from his brief encounter with the  _Jackdaw's_  barnacle-crusted hull, but they had thankfully provided some measure of protection for him. His left deltoid and the pale stretch of his shoulders, however, had not fared as well. Deep scratches gouged the skin, bleeding freely. Still, overall, the damage was not as horrible as it easily could have been.

The most worrying thing was that Edward was still not breathing on his own.

“Breathe for him,” Connor instructed. When Rhian looked up at him, he saw the sheen of tears in her seafoam-green eyes. “It is the best that we can do for now until he is able to do so on his own.”

Rhian nodded quickly and, bending her face to his, pressed her mouth to Edward's, working his lips apart so that she could push air into his lungs. Connor watched his grandfather's back rise slightly as Rhian breathed for him. Then he watched it deflate again, and then-

Edward choked.

Rhian pulled back reflexively, hands cradling Edward's cheeks as the blond man hacked out seawater and blood across the deck and her knees. Connor reached out and turned Edward onto his side so that he could breathe easier. As the coughing died off, Rhian shifted so that Edward's head was lying in her lap, and though a severe grimace twisted Edward's features and he groaned faintly, every muscle in his body tensing, she stroked his hair gently. Even as Connor watched, he noticed Edward begin to slowly relax.

Rhian turned to Connor.

“We need to get him to his cabin and have Gibbs look at him,” she informed him quietly. “Maynard's men have been repairing the  _Jackdaw_  since the battle. It should all be ship-shape and Bristol fashion.”

Connor nodded and went to retrieve Gibbs. The elderly surgeon, while he was busy with tending the crew's wounds, did promise to come see Edward as soon as they had him squirreled away in his cabin. Rhian looked up to Connor as he returned.

“Can you carry him on your own?” she questioned. Connor nodded. “I'll get his legs.”

As they worked on carrying Edward down to his cabin, Connor kept his eye on Rhian, looking for any signs of deception aside from the obvious. It said something that he could not find any.

Edward groaned as they laid him upon the cot in the captain's cabin, and the next time Connor looked at his grandfather's face, he found the ocean-blue eyes to be open. The glaze to them showed his pain and illness, however. It was likely that Edward was less than lucid. Again, Connor went for Gibbs. This time, the surgeon accompanied him back to the cabin, his proper tools and medicines in tow, and he set about treating Edward's wounds with a care that Connor had hardly ever seen from him before.

By the time it was over with, Edward had resumed his unconscious state, breathing still uneasy but slightly less ragged than before. Rhian gazed anxiously at him as Gibbs leaned back, stretching.

“Well?” she demanded, worry making her voice higher than normal.

“Well, what?” Gibbs repeated, glaring at her. “You didn't seem to care abou' 'im when you betrayed us all.”

Rhian sighed painfully. “I did what I had to do. Found an ally, got Connor free, got Edward the turmeric and tobacco and such, and set fire to the  _Sophie's_  rigging to create a distraction so that the Jackdaws could mutiny.”

“Yet,” Gibbs observed, “wasn't 'til after the Cap'n 'ad already been thrown o'er.”

“I moved as quickly as I could,” Rhian maintained stolidly. “I know that you don't trust me right now, and for good reason. But this ordeal wasn't my fault. At least, not entirely.” She turned back to Edward. “And the only man I have to answer to is lying right here. Now, I'll ask nicely: is he going to live, or not?”

Gibbs shrugged, rising to go.

“It's outta me 'ands,” he stated. “'S a miracle 'e's survived as long as 'e 'as. Who knows what this'll do to 'im?”

And he vanished.

Rhian turned miserably back to watching over Edward, and Connor closed the door behind Gibbs before he took a second to observe his friend.

What was that look in Rhian's expression? It was concern, certainly, but it was quite a lot of concern for a friend to show. In fact, it was borderline to blatant worry. She looked positively ill with it. Connor did not know much about other cultures' ways of showing emotion, but he did know that this much worry from a woman usually only manifested when her man was in mortal danger. Did Rhian view Edward as being hers? Or was it just a strong friendship that she felt for him? If she felt anything for Edward, then why had she kissed Connor that night in the hold? Why had she held him so close and looked at him so passionately? Connor felt nothing more than friendship for her, certainly, but he was curious. Unless he was sorely mistaken...

Could Rhian possibly be in love with Edward?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Welsh Translations:  
>  Cach** \- Shit (I don't even remember if this is in the chapter, honestly.)  
>  **Rhocyn** \- Laddie, lad
> 
> **Mastheading** : Sending a miscreant to the highest part of the mast during a storm.  
>  **Kissing the Wooden Lady** : Tying a miscreant to the mainmast.  
>  **Keelhauling** : A criminal is tied to the main yard, his ankles are weighted, and he is thrown over the side. The ship's wake drags him along the hull towards the keel (the back of the ship) and the barnacles on the hull strip the flesh from his body. This was done three times, or until the criminal was dead.  
>  **Rhian's Remedies** : Not sure if these actually work; they're home remedies I found in a book.  
>  **Edward's Crimes** : Shameless plug to Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl, here.  
>  **Lt. Robert Maynard** : The man who killed Edward "Blackbeard" Teach in 1718.  
>  **Atlantow** : The Mohawk deity/spirit of death and/or evil, depending on which website you read it from.
> 
> Questions, comments, and concerns are always welcome, if you would choose to voice them. Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 9: Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edward suffers from fever-dreams, and realizations come from all directions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real Life sucks.

_“I’m losing it. I think I’m really starting to lose it.”_

_July 30, 1715._

* * *

 

Fog. Fog, fog, foggity-fog. Fog, rolling and pitching, and heat, burning, and burning and _burning. He_ was burning. From time to time, he thought he saw people he knew. His strong mother, one of the stubborn _Cymry_ through and through, worn and tired after raising him and his three older sisters and his older two brothers and watching her other three babies die, but still ready with a smile at every turn. His solemn English father, a drunkard by evening who was always heavy-handed in every aspect of his life, willing to hit those who annoyed him, but a hard worker nonetheless who did his best to keep his large family from starving. He had died on his son’s seventeenth birthday, as he recalled. The first girl he had ever kissed, dark hair curling through his fingers and dark eyes twinkling. His beautiful, beloved wife, her scent, her laugh, her broad, toothy smile, the way she had felt around him as they had made love again and again and again until they were both exhausted and sated and so _in love,_ her anger, her joy, the way she looked when her cheeks flushed with exertion and emotion as they danced at harvest-time back home. His old overseer, a hard man who had allowed him to marry his daughter but who had never approved of his wastrel son-in-law. The captain of the first ship on which he had ever served.

Dimly, he recalled that he had been 18 the first time he had gone to sea. It had been after an argument with his wife, after he had lost his last job as a cooper for punching a man who had insulted him by questioning his Welsh mother’s fidelity to his father. His wife had thrown him out, calling him worthless and inconstant and irresponsible, and he had gone down to one of the waterfront pubs to drown his anger and misery in ale. It had been there, in the early hours just before dawn, that he had heard the sailors talking about the war with Spain, and heard them talking about Captain William Kidd, and the spark that he had nursed in his heart since his youngest childhood days, that desire for fortune and fame, had flared again. The need to prove his worth to his wife had blazed up with a ferocity that seared his soul. He had almost gone over and joined up with them then and there. Then he had remembered how his wife had said just that morning that her courses had not yet come, and he remembered that he needed to be there for her in case she was with child.

His mind drifted. The memory of that night floated up, foggy but crystal-clear at the same time. Some of the details were hazy: he could half-remember how the pub had smelled of smoke and piss and vomit, how bitter the ale had tasted on his tongue, how the rushes had crunched and squelched beneath his boots as he had walked through the pub on his way out the door to return to his wife. Other things were needle-sharp, like the way it had felt as one burly man had grabbed him by the left arm and another by his right, the way they had clubbed him with a baton when he had tried to pull out of their grasp, the gravel in one man’s voice as he had told him to “Be proud, you’re about to become a sailor in the Royal Navy.” He remembered with stark clarity the way they had dragged him out into the street in the early dawn and headed towards the wharf despite his snarled threats and curses and pleas. He had seen her as they had clubbed him again, and blood had drifted into his eyes as she had shrieked a denial and had run towards him. He had murmured her name, dazedly pulling towards her, and had received another blow for his efforts; the impact had made stars explode in his vision and had made his knees go weak as his head spun. He had listened to his wife’s shouts and pleas, listened to her demand his release. He had managed to wrench out of his captors’ grips and lurch over to her, grabbing her, feeling it as she clung to him and sobbed into his chest. He had whispered her name over and over again, heard it as she had pleaded with him not to go, as she begged the members of the press gang not to take him, threatened to kill or castrate them all if they took him. It had been no use. Two of the men had seized him before more than a moment had passed, and when he tried to wrench away and run again, they had dealt him a staggering blow to the temple. It had sent him to his knees, limp in his captors’ grasp. The blood in his mouth had been copper and iron and water, sick and sweet and bitter all at once. He had seen tears streaming down his wife’s face. The ringing in his ears had been too loud to hear her words, by then, but he had been able to make out that she was screaming his name as she struggled to reach him, yelling for somebody to help them.

But nobody had come to his aid. He had been dragged away, dazed, unable to keep his feet. By the next day, they had been at sea, and he had not seen his wife for another year. The letters that he had managed to send had been infrequent at best. Like most people of his class, he was illiterate; it had been a chore to first find someone who could write, and then have them write out the words he had trouble bringing to his tongue. What could he say to her that she did not already know? How could he ever tell her how sorry he was for leaving her, for arguing with her, for being so flighty and inconstant and irresponsible that he was unable to keep a job or be a good husband to her?

So he had always written inquiring about her health, about how her pregnancy was progressing, had wondered if she was making enough money to live comfortably, if she had gone to her father like she should if he were ever removed from the picture. He had asked how his mother was faring, how his brothers and sisters were doing. He had inquired after her father. He had told her that he missed her more than words could express, that he would see her when they returned. He informed her of their next destination, so that she could write back to him. He had confessed to her about the life at sea, how he was learning more than he had ever thought possible about seafaring and cooperage, how his few skills as an ex-cooper were coming in handy, how he was learning to navigate from the ship’s master, with whom he had bonded rather quickly. He told her how he might be able to rise in rank sometime soon, if he kept learning as quickly as he was. He wrote about the storms they faced, how it always felt as though he would be blown straight from the rigging whenever he went up during a gale, but how it was stunningly beautiful at the same time, utterly breathtaking in its cold fury. He regaled her with stories about the crew, the songs they sang, the superstitions they held, the camaraderie that bound them tightly together. He laughed to her about how ill he had been the first few days at sea, how none of them, himself included, ever cut their hair or nails at sea for the fear that it would bring calamitous storms down upon them, how it was lucky to see a porpoise and unlucky to kill one, how black cats carried gales in their tails, and how they killed any rats they saw leaving a ship to prevent misfortune.

All these things and more, he had written about to her. Her replies had been even more infrequent than his were, but whenever he did receive a letter in a foreign port, it was always with the greatest thrill that he listened to the words that his literate shipmates read to him and committed them to memory.

She was doing well, her pregnancy was progressing perfectly, her father had gotten a tooth pulled and discovered that he had an ulcer, but he was otherwise well, and she had gone to live with him after the night at the wharf. He was as excited to be a grandfather as she was to be a mother. She told him how her belly had begun to swell and round, how the baby had kicked for the first time, how she could feel him- she knew it was a boy, somehow- toss and turn whenever she lay down to sleep. She told him that their son would be as restless of heart as his father. She informed him that his widowed Welsh mother was being courted by a well-to-do English carpenter who was sober as a priest and fair in his dealings. His eldest sister had just given birth to her third child, his eldest brother had gotten a job as a clerk, his other brother had graduated to a journeyman blacksmith, his second-oldest sister had become maidservant to a noblewoman, and his third sister had begun courting a young farrier. She confessed that she missed him, but that his lively tales and anecdotes and his thoughtful musings made it seem as though she was right there with him, living his life alongside him, and she asked him to keep doing the same.

He had been eight months at sea when he received the letter that told him that she had lost the baby.

He dimly remembered the numbness that had overtaken him, remembered the disbelief, the denial, the confusion, the anger, and then, after all of that, the crushing pain that had driven him to his knees, unable to breathe. He did not remember what the man reading to him had done, but he did recall waking in his hammock, feverish and sick and delirious with worry. He recalled how he had gone up on deck that night and stood at the gunwale, staring down into the black waters below him, wondering what it would be like to just jump off and let the ocean take him. He had wondered if it would be a quick death or if it would take a long time for him to drown. He had wondered if it would be as painful as knowing that his child was dead.

That had been how the captain, George Howe, had found him.

Dark-haired Howe had been a seafarer since his boyhood. As the younger son of a lesser nobleman, he had gone aboard his first ship at the tender age of nine as a midshipman, and had worked his way up the ranks from then on. He was a disciplined man and firm, but not unkind, and he treated all of his crew with respect. They followed orders and conducted themselves properly and with the discipline he expected. He had been fond of playing the violin. In his dealings he was fair, fairer than many men. He never handed out punishments lightly, never flogged someone for his amusement, never mistook levity for insubordination or misconduct, and his men loved him for it. It did not hurt that he was a damn good seafarer and tactician, also. They had won many engagements and remained alive in several impossible situations because of his ingenuity, resourcefulness, experience, and quick thinking.

He had learned a lot from that captain.

But it was when he was standing there, feverishly contemplating the prospect of suicide, that the captain had come to stand by him, silent but for the quiet humming of a tune that was popular back home. Howe had stood there with him for a good hour before he had really noticed Howe’s presence.

“Do you need anything, sir?” he had asked, giving a wobbly salute. Howe had eyed him with some slight concern.

“No,” Howe had replied at length. “I need nothing but to know your mind.”

He had not made an answer for quite some time. His gaze had returned to the black waters beneath, watching the slight changes in hue as the waves shifted against the hull.

“It would be so easy to lose oneself in the waves, sir,” he had whispered finally. “The ocean is a powerful mistress, and she has been good to me, to us all.” He had paused. “But there was never a time such as now when I have wished more than anything that I was with my wife at home… and never wanted to return, at the same time.”

The captain had nodded slowly, turning his eyes to the wet darkness.

“Do you miss her?” the captain had asked. It had taken him a moment to coax his numb lips into motion.

“She was to birth our first child next month,” he had confessed dully. “In her latest letter, she informs me that she has lost the baby.”

His throat had closed up. Heat had welled in his eyes to match his fever-flushed face. The captain had said nothing for nearly a half-hour, and he had not wanted to speak again. When Howe had finally turned back to him, his cheeks had been damp, and he had been unable to look at his superior for the grief and shame inside of him.

“The ocean is a good mistress, Kenway,” Howe had said. “But her cold arms can never match the warmth of the embrace of one’s wife, nor is her kiss as sweet as a wife’s lips, nor her voice as kind. The ocean is more fickle and inconstant than a wife can ever be, and jealous besides.” He had turned back to the sea, then. “Think of these things before you seek her embrace, for once you fall into her arms and take her abed, she will never let you go back to your wife.”

The image of his wife’s face had floated before his mind, then, and he had turned his face away from his captain as the tears streaked his cheeks, unable to breathe for the tightness of his throat. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead after only a moment; his fever had spiked so that he had nearly passed out. It had only been once he had opened his eyes again to find that he had folded to the deck and that Howe was holding him upright by the shoulders, that he had realized that he was on his last legs, and that if he ever wanted to see his wife again, he needed to live.

Above all things, he needed to live. For her.

The captain had personally helped him back down to his hammock and, after he was safely ensconced in the swaying fabric, Howe had laid his hand on his sweating forehead.

“You made the right choice, lad,” Howe had said. “You made the right choice. Now you keep fighting, and you never let that dark sea drag you down again. Be strong, swim hard.”

He had never forgotten George Howe’s words. When he had finally made it back to England a full year after he had been pressed into service, he had met his wife with a desperate embrace full of relief and hurt and love and longing and regret.

The baby had been a boy after all, she had told him later that night after they had made love, and they had wept together for the son who they had never known.

They had resumed their lives, after that. He had gotten a job as a cooper, had taken to avoiding the waterfront at all costs, and had tried his best to be a dutiful husband in all respects. His wife had, at first, been thrilled with his seeming newfound responsibility and devotion. For a time, they had been content, if not entirely happy.

But then, he had lost his job. His supervisor had died, and the business had gone under due to the new owner’s inability to manage things properly. He had not been able to find another job until nearly a month later, and then he had lost that one, as well, because he had been unable to keep from smarting off to his arrogant overseer. His wife’s father had passed away that summer, so that recourse was gone.

He had flitted from one employment to the next, finding it increasingly difficult to keep his jobs, and soon, he and his wife had begun arguing again. Before long, he had felt that old sense of impotent worthlessness grow within him once more. It had taken up residence deep within his heart, where it festered like an open sore, the scab ripping open again and again each and every time he found himself unemployed. Now, more than ever, he wanted to be able to support his wife, prove to her and the rest of his family that he could make something of himself.

It was around that time that he had realized that he would never amount to anything if he stayed on land. At least at sea he had been able to make a living for his wife and her father, if nothing else, and he and the crew he had served with had won some measure of renown, as well.

He wanted to _be_ _somebody._ Not just another face in the crowd.

So he had joined up with the Royal Navy again. The two months’ bonus pay he had gotten for voluntarily signing on had gone towards paying off the debts that he and his wife had incurred over the past few months, and he had sailed with the next man-o-war to leave the harbor.

Interestingly enough, it was captained by the same man he had sailed under the last time.

Unfortunately, it had only been a matter of six months before the Treaties of Utrecht had negated all need for privateers in the West Indies, and he had found himself out of a job yet again. Captain Howe had gone to live in the Colonies with his wife. He, however, had decided not to return home in defeat this time. He had decided to win glory and riches without the King’s consent. That had been a difficult letter to send to his wife.

She had informed him, in the return letter, that he had better not return to her again, and that even though she missed him, he was dead to her for her own protection. Five months later, she had informed him that she had borne him a daughter.

He had been the happiest man alive, when he had heard that news. But then the pain of realization had set in as it had dawned upon him that he would never meet the girl, _his_ girl. Not when he could not set foot in a respectable port due to his actions and affiliations. Soon after, he had taken the _Jackdaw_ in a mutiny, and that had been the true beginning of his pirating career.

But the fog was back again, swallowing up his memories. Edward Kenway drifted yet again.

Then there was _her._ That girl. He could dimly recall laughing, seafoam-green eyes and there was an impression of _blue,_ and _red_ and _warmth_ and _trust._ For some reason, an image of her flashed before his mind’s eye, standing over him while holding a gun to his head. He wondered what it meant. With it came the thought of _man_ and _darkness_ and _family._ Another image flashed through his hazy, scattered thoughts: the man kissing the girl in the shadows, silhouetted against a soft yellow light. That imagining brought with it a pang of jealousy so strong that it made his stomach roll. Without really remembering, he remembered coughing and dizziness and water and pain, pain, _pain._ He did not know what had happened after that.

But what did it matter? That was then, and the then had no bearing on the now. Edward let the memories go, and let himself drift yet again.

Several times, he thought he saw rich, fertile green fields of rolling grass. A stream cut through the picture, at which deer drank their fill. In the distance was a fertile orchard, the boughs of the trees heavy with fruit. Beneath his bare feet, the earth was damp and dark. The sunlight was always warm on his skin, the breeze the softest kiss of his dearest lover. He never wanted to leave.

But every time he thought he might be able to stay, he would hear voices, and darkness would close over him once more. Darkness, broken by sporadic bursts of fire and ice. It hurt so much that he wished he was dead. But after those frigid infernos came long stretches of that warm, comfortable darkness again. Gradually, he became aware that the bouts of fire and ice were becoming rarer. He did not know how he knew this; there was no way to mark the time in the black gulf that surrounded him. But as he drifted, he simply knew that there were fewer times that he felt as though he was burning, and longer stretches when he thought that it had all ended.

Maybe it had all ended.

Maybe he was dead.

A bolt of fire shot through his body. Maybe not.

And then, suddenly, there was _light._ Light, and pain, and he felt like he was burning. Edward gasped for air around the aches and shivered through the heat, sweat running in rivers down his face. He could not see clearly. Everything was blurry. Within him, his stomach churned uncomfortably. It felt like he could not breathe.

His lungs seized; he choked, and white-hot pain swarmed him until he could not tell up from down or left from right. All there was was the horrible, burning agony, consuming him wholly.

For an eternity, it was his entire world.

Then there came a soothing, cooling feeling, and he gasped in both shock and relief before the choking returned. He tasted metal. Something moved on his lower back, something blessedly cold and tender. Eventually, he was able to make out the sound of what sounded like music. The touch on his back gradually resolved into the sensation of someone’s palm, gently rubbing circles there, and he felt someone stroking his hair, also. The low, murmuring cadence of a voice met his ears. It was rhythmic, and much slower than his heaving lungs would allow him to follow. He latched onto that soothing sound and touch. Focusing on them was easier than trying not to panic at the way he could not stop coughing.

There was blood in his mouth.

The voice took on a slightly sharp edge for a moment, and he felt his heart leap as fear spiked through him. Then it became calm again, and he calmed in response. As the low, rhythmic murmur continued, he focused on it more and more, unconsciously matching his breathing to its pattern. Soon, he had stopped choking altogether. He slumped, exhausted, against the soft surface beneath him, breathing wet but steadied. Wearily, he cracked open his blurry eyes to try to find the source of the sound and touch that had calmed him.

But everything was too indistinct and he could see almost nothing. There was a blur in front of his face, but past that was a haze of darkness and _brown_. Blinking slowly, he dully wondered where he was, and what the blur was.

Then it moved, and he saw red. The red stirred a memory inside of him. It was a memory of _trust_ and _hurt_ and _camaraderie_ and _betrayal_ and _hope_ and _friendship._

“Dr’ssn,” he mumbled hoarsely, willing his unresponsive lips to move. They would not cooperate, however, and neither would his limbs when he tried to lift a hand to his companion. The soothing voice from earlier met his ears, shushing him gently.

“Hush,” she said. That was not Drystan. The voice was too high and smooth. It was supposed to be lower, rougher, and manlier.

It took him a moment to realize that she was speaking in her natural register.

“Don’t try to talk,” she told him quietly, and he felt someone stroke his hair again. Dimly, he realized that Drystan was the one who was doing it. “You’ve been unconscious for ten days. We were beginning to fear that you weren’t going to wake.” Her touch vanished for a moment. When she put her hands on him again, he felt something cool trail across his hot skin.

He blinked slowly in her direction, brain sluggishly going through what he had just learned. So, he was still alive, after all. It seemed as though he was back in the company of friends, or at least allies.

_Thass righ’. Th’attack. B’tray’l._

_Drystan._

“You… b’tray’d…” He could not form the words properly, and the small effort that he had made left him exhausted. She shushed him again.

“Don’t talk,” she reminded him. “I’ll explain everything once you’re stronger. Until then, I’ll tell you this: we escaped from Lieutenant Maynard, scuttled one of his ships, and crippled the other. Connor is currently acting as Captain, as Gregson is very ill at the moment and Gibbs has his hands full with the sick and wounded. We’re _en route_ to Nassau as we speak.” She touched his forehead, and he moaned deliriously, leaning into her cool palm with delight. “You’re a very sick man, Kenway.”

He gave a timid little cough, wary of how it very well might trigger a fit to rival the earlier one that had woken him.

“Gr’sson,” he mumbled.

“Broken leg,” Drystan replied, removing her palm from his forehead. A second later, she put it back to his skin, holding something cool and wet there. A damp cloth, he surmised. “Gibbs says he might have to take it if it turns gangrene.”

“ _Cach,”_ Edward muttered, and Drystan gave a strained laugh.

“Glad to hear you can still swear, Kenway,” she chuckled, and he was startled to realize that he heard a profound relief in her voice. “Do you think you can stay awake a little longer? Connor wanted to see you.”

He murmured a half-coherent acquiescence, and Drystan vanished from his side. Edward closed his eyes, bone-weary. Another cough escaped him. Thankfully, it did not turn into a fit, but it was still painful. He grimaced. A moment later, Drystan returned, and with her came the cool cloth for his head. He grunted and leaned drowsily into her touch. They were silent for a long time. Then Edward gave a little sigh and cracked his eyes open, looking hazily over at her. His vision was clearer, this time, and he could see her more easily. Her auburn hair was hanging limply around her ears, damp as though freshly washed. Her skin, though still tan, was paler than he remembered; there were dark circles beneath her tired, seafoam-green eyes.

Those eyes were what caught his attention.

Aside from being completely bloodshot and shadowed, those orbs were red-rimmed. Even as he watched, they glistened wetly, and she gave him a strained little smile. He could tell that she was happy that he was awake. However, he could also see that she was worried sick.

“’M dyin’,” he guessed weakly as he gave a slow blink and groaned as he felt the fires in his body flare again. He clenched his eyes shut and gasped for breath through the intense heat, shaking with the effort. Drystan gave a little gasp and a moment later, more coolness was spread across his back and legs. Something cold was pressed into each armpit; he heard a sloshing sound.

“You’re not dying, _rhocyn,”_ she intoned firmly, and her cool hand returned to his forehead. “You can’t die on us, not now. Might feel like it, for a while, but you’re goin’ to live.”

He grunted faintly, struggling to breathe. It was becoming easier, but it was still alarming and uncomfortable to be so warm. Drystan was silent for a long moment. Edward opened his eyes again to look up at her. There was so much sadness on her face that he almost risked the pain just to try to cheer her up again. But she opened her mouth to speak, first, and he found himself transfixed by her lips.

Idly, he wondered how he had never noticed, before, how pink they were. Pink, and plump, and entirely too feminine and kissable for the face of the boy that she pretended to be. He watched them move as she talked.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. He dizzily watched the play of light across her skin, taking in the gentle curve of her neck where it sloped down to her shoulder, the curve of her cheek, the graceful arch of her auburn eyebrows. His gaze slowly traveled down from there, to the delicate shells of her ears and the red ringlets that framed them, to the column of her throat, and down from there to where, he realized, she had removed her jacket and waistcoat, for once, leaving her in a simple woolen shirt. She had left the collar untied, and he could see a slim triangle of pale flesh where it disappeared beneath the opaque fabric. At the V of the part, he could just barely make out the valley between her breasts where they had been pushed up by her bindings. Even further south, he took in the shapely suppleness of her trim waist, both accentuated and hidden by the red sash tied around her wide hips. Her thighs were indistinguishable beneath her loose breeches; past where they ended at her knees, he could see a shapely pair of strong, supple calves and two almost dainty feet. Even her arms were sleek and trim. When he had cared for her after the fiasco in Havana, he had been able to feel the steely muscle beneath the thin layer of her skin, and though she did not have the bulk that he, Connor, or any of the other men on board had, he knew that her slender form was deceptively delicate, hiding a strength that could be terrifying if used correctly.

How had he never noticed all of this before now?

“Kenway?” Her question was the barest of whispers. It took a moment for it to penetrate the haze of his musings, and he blinked slowly before returning his gaze to hers. Drystan gave him a tight little smile. “Did you hear me?”

He grunted, blinking slowly as his exhaustion began to creep up on him again.

“I said I’m sorry,” she repeated, and he glanced up to her. “For everything that’s happened. I’m sorry.”

Edward sighed softly.

“Sh’up,” he slurred, closing his eyes. “Talk you la’er.”

Drystan was quiet for a moment. Then he heard her sigh.

“All right,” she whispered.

Edward was drowsing again before he realized that she had spoken. As he began to drift off, he distantly heard a voice begin to sing.

“ _Dacw ‘nghariad i lawr yn y berllan,  
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal.  
O na bawn i yno fy hunan,  
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal.  
Dacw’r t_ _ŷ_ _, a dacw’r ‘sgubor;_  
Dacw ddrws y beudy’n agor.  
Ffaldi radl didl dal, ffaldi radl didl dal,  
Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal…”

 _Who is that?_ he wondered as his thoughts hazed. _It’s beautiful._ Everything faded, then, and his musings went unanswered.

Edward slept.

* * *

“Has he said anything?” Connor’s blunt question interrupted Rhian’s soft singing, and she paused, turning enough to glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Nothing much,” she answered, shrugging pathetically. She sighed and slumped forward, one hand pressing a damp cloth to Edward’s pale forehead where his face was turned towards her, and the other rubbing her temples as she leaned heavily on her knee. “He recognized me, and asked after Gregson once I told him why you’re the acting captain. He remembered that I’d betrayed you all. He also asked if he’s dying, so that should say something about how he’s feeling.”

Connor said nothing more, just crossed the room to stand over Edward for a moment, looking down at the older man. Rhian watched him with wary sadness, inwardly lamenting the cold distance with which Connor now treated her. Ever since that day when she had stood over him on the _Jackdaw’s_ deck and held a pistol to Edward’s head, Connor had viewed her as the traitor she had become.

More than anything, Rhian wished that they had their easy friendship back. She knew, though, that it would never happen.

She would be lucky if they let her live, after her actions.

“What of Estevan and the others?” she asked softly. “Have you decided what to do with them?”

Connor shook his head. “It is not for me to decide their fates.”

Rhian gave a little sigh.

“Edward is unable to make a decision,” she commented. “And I, of course, have no place to advise you. I doubt you’d believe me anyway, even if I told you my side of things.”

Connor was still for a moment. Then he turned to her, tawny golden eyes calculating and cold. Rhian quailed inwardly and longed for the warmth that used to linger in them.

“I said that it is not for me to decide their fates,” he repeated. Rhian nodded and looked away. “Therefore, I have decided to maroon them before we reach Nassau.”

Rhian blinked, wondering if she had really heard the words. She turned slowly towards Connor, only to find him staring down at Edward again. The man on the cot gave a weak cough, the fever-flush bright in his pale cheeks. Not for the first time in the past half-hour, Rhian found her gaze drawn to Edward’s back, covered in bandages and damp cloths alike. The gaping hole in his back where a shiver from an exploding ship had impaled him was covered with stewed tobacco leaves to make it drain properly. It had become infected shortly into his captivity after Lieutenant Robert Maynard had refused to allow Gibbs to properly treat Edward. Then there were the gouges in Edward’s shoulders, souvenirs from his close encounter with the _Jackdaw’s_ keel 10 days past. Those had not become infected, as of yet, but it was still worrying. Edward had been weak with fever and sickness when they had keelhauled him. The poorly-executed death sentence had reaped a heavy toll.

“You’re going to maroon them?” she asked quietly, pulling her hand away from Edward’s hot forehead in favor of rewetting the cloth from the lukewarm bucket of water at her feet. She squeezed the rag out and, taking one of the cloths from his back, set the fresh one where that had been and rewet the warm one. She repeated the process until the cloths had all been replaced, from his shoulders to his naked bottom to his thighs and calves. The last one, she pressed against his forehead.

“I am,” Connor replied, taking a second to pull the wadded towels from Edward’s armpits and rewet those, also. “They will be left to fend for themselves. If someone comes along and decides to take them on, then they will live. If not, then they will die.”

Rhian nodded slowly, not removing her eyes from Edward’s prone form.

“A simple enough solution,” she murmured. “You’ll make a fine pirate, yet, boyo.”

“A pirate, no,” Connor replied firmly. He turned to leave the cabin. “We will reach Nassau in six days. If Edward is lucid by then, then he will decide what to do with you. If not, then you shall be left in the port to find your own way.”

Rhian accepted the judgment with a sinking heart. She had no doubt that she could find employment on another ship, take care of herself, and possibly even barter passage to the Colonies or to England. However, doing so would remove her from the only people she had come to care for since she had been separated from Cadell at the signing-on years beforehand. She would lose her friends for good.

“I understand.” She lowered her head into her free hand yet again, feeling sick. “I suppose that’s fair enough.”

As she heard Connor depart, however, the words surged up before she could stop them.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and heard him pause. Rhian turned her gaze to her former friend, feeling the grief with her entire being. “You were the truest friend I’ve ever had, Connor, and I’m sorry that I failed you so badly and in so many ways.”

When he did not reply or react in any way, Rhian turned her stare back to the floor between her feet. She felt like crying. The cabin door thudded closed behind Connor, and Rhian’s breath hitched before she could contain the sound. She pressed her forehead harder into her palm, wishing she could hold back the tears that were welling in her eyes by sheer pressure alone.

Rhian had always hated crying. It made her feel useless, helpless and _impotent_. She had learned early on that crying would get her nothing in life; for years, she had buried everything deep, deep inside where it could not escape. But now, faced with the loss of everything she had come to love and cherish, Rhian found she could no longer hold back the tears.

God, but she could not bear it.

A hand landed on her shoulder. Rhian jumped and spun around, hands flying up to defend herself.

It was Connor.

As she sat there, staring dumbly up at him with dampness on her face, Connor set his hand back on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. It took a second for Rhian to realize what was happening. Then she reached up and wrapped her hand around his strong, brown palm, taking the comfort that he was offering as the tears streamed forth in earnest. Grimacing as her head started pounding for the second time that day, Rhian bowed her head and supported it with the heel of her unoccupied hand. The cloth from Edward’s forehead slid, forgotten, to the cot beside his head.

Connor just stood there, silent, as her breath hitched quietly and she allowed herself to cry, just this once.

* * *

_August 4, 1715._

“Would ye hold still, lad?” Gibbs glared at Edward as the younger man shifted once again. “I can’ stitch it up if ye don’ ‘old still.” He glanced over at Drystan where the boy was sitting miserably on a stool beside the cot. “Or maybe I’ll get Drystan ta sit on ye. I’m bettin’ ‘e’d e’en like it, some.”

Edward fidgeted again as the needle began to descend towards his skin. Drystan watched him shudder, watched Gibbs growl, and seemed to decide to intervene. The boy got to his feet and placed his hand on the back of Edward’s head, pushing down gently. Edward, in return, growled ferociously as his face was pressed into the pillow. Then, when Drystan let up slightly, he turned his head to the side so that he could glare up at the boy in question.

“What the _cach_ do you think you’re-?”

Drystan pushed down again. Edward’s question was muffled in the side of his own tattooed right arm where it had previously been propping up his head.

“You be quiet, Captain,” Drystan instructed, “and this’ll go a lot faster and be much more painless.”

One ocean-blue eye blazed up at her as Edward seethed silently, but he was unable to muster the strength to pull free. Drystan placed his other palm at the base of Edward’s neck, and pressed down there, immobilizing him from the shoulders up. Then the young man turned to Gibbs and nodded.

“You may proceed, Mister Gibbs,” he informed him. Gibbs nodded to the younger pirate and quickly set to work, washing the wounds in Edward’s shoulders and stitching them up with an efficiency born of long practice. There were five in total that were deep enough that they would have to be stitched; the others were mere scratches. As Gibbs finished up almost an hour later, he chanced a glance at Drystan’s solemn features.

The boy looked utterly heartsick.

Edward had finally been more or less lucid when he had awoken the day before, and had been even more lucid with each consecutive awakening. Gibbs had watched as Drystan had withdrawn into himself the more aware Edward had become. Honestly, Gibbs had no idea what had happened between the two of them, aside from the obvious. He figured that Drystan was probably just getting a little nervous about having to account for his actions.

Speaking of which, Gibbs had no idea exactly what had happened. It had seemed, at first, as though Drystan had turned traitor on all of them; he had held a gun to a wounded Edward’s head and helped the British privateers take the _Jackdaw_ and her crew captive. But then, he had come to them in the hold one evening with medical supplies for Edward, seemingly at risk to himself. Gibbs had watched from a dark corner as Drystan had first threatened Connor, and then, to Gibbs’s shock, kissed the taller, darker man full on the mouth. Even more to Gibbs’s shock, it had seemed as though Connor had _liked_ it.

Funny, he had always figured Connor for a tits man.

At any rate, Drystan had then left them for another five days. The day that Gibbs and Gregson had dragged an unconscious Edward to the weather deck for execution, Gibbs had thought that it was all over. Edward would be killed, and then Gibbs, Gregson, and the rest of the crew would be hanged upon arrival at Port Royal.

Edward had just been dragged over to the gunwale to have his ankles weighted when Gibbs had seen the movement on the deck of the _H.M.S. Sophie._ He had looked over to the other ship just in time to see a familiar, auburn-haired figure set fire to the sails and rigging. Gibbs had turned back to Edward just in time to see the _Jackdaw’s_ captain go overboard, tied to the main yard and ankles weighted, an oiled gag in his mouth. It had been then that the cries of alarm rang out across the _Jackdaw’s_ deck, and the British sailors had gazed with disbelief and alarm over at the _Sophie_ as she had begun burning in earnest. At that time, chaos erupted on the _Jackdaw’s_ deck.

The Jackdaws had had enough. Each and every pirate there had seized weapons from the distracted sailors and merchant marines, or drawn out or picked up any flotsam that they had managed to pilfer in the past 18 days. As the Jackdaws had begun the assault on the Sophies, Gibbs had watched as Connor had appeared from the rigging, running out along the main yard until he reached where Edward’s line was tied to the wooden post. He had swiftly cut the line, and then Gibbs had watched in astonishment as the dark man had taken a dive overboard, most likely to retrieve Edward’s body.

The revolt had been short-lived. Lieutenant Maynard and the crew of the _Sophie_ had abandoned ship rather quickly, all things considered. They had fled to the other surviving British ship, the _H.M.S. Rose_ (neither the first ship nor the last of that name) _,_ and the _Jackdaws_ had quickly set sail to wind and high-tailed it out of the area. The rudder-chain of the _Rose_ must have been disabled, because she did not pursue them.

Drystan had come aboard again at that time, dry from having stolen a longboat from the _Sophie_ before it went up in flames. With him was the brown-haired man who had stood behind him at the capture, as well as the six or so Spaniards that they had taken from the schooner well over a month before. The brown-haired man was holding a pair of pistols on the six Spaniards, who looked collectively displeased. And, when they hauled Connor and Edward up on deck a few minutes later, Gibbs had been astonished to find that Edward was still alive. Barely, but he was.

Even more astonishing had been Drystan’s reaction to Edward’s new injuries. The boy had dropped to his knees beside the captain, stroking his blond hair back from his face and murmuring to him, entreating him to start breathing again. Once they had started him breathing on his own again, they had taken Edward into his cabin and Gibbs, after retrieving his supplies, had gone in to treat the blond man.

It had been strange to see the blatant worry on Drystan’s face during the treatment. After getting used to the boy’s sarcasm and stoicism, Gibbs had had to wonder if the concern he saw there was real, or if it was feigned to curry favor. He even wondered if Drystan’s worry had not been born of guilt for betraying them. He had left the room after the treatment and a biting criticism, but Drystan’s demeanor and words had made him think. Over the 15 days that had passed since then, he had observed the boy closely, closer even than when he was looking after him those first few days after he had been stabbed in the stomach during the capture of the Spanish schooner.

What he had begun to suspect startled him, but if he was right, it would make a lot of things make sense.

 _Drystan_ was a _woman._ Gibbs did not know how he had not noticed it before. He supposed that the boy- _girl-_ had had years to learn how to successfully hide his- _her-_ gender, and a healthy dose of paranoia had helped that along quite nicely.

Firstly, he had noticed the emotions he- _she_ \- had begun displaying. There was the tenderness upon hi- _her_ face whenever h- _she_ looked at Edward or Connor. Then, there was the grace with which _she_ moved. _She_ probably did not even notice it, but she moved with the grace of a woman even when she was trying hard to imitate a man. Oh, certainly, it was a very subtle thing; she had had years of practice to learn how to move, after all. She was so good at it that she had fooled not only all of the Jackdaws, but also the Spanish crew of the schooner for the two years before her capture by the pirates, and God only knew how long she had tricked her English crew before she had been taken as a captive by the Spanish. So, she had been practicing at being a man for at least two or three years before now, if not longer. It was no wonder that she had fooled all but the closest of observers. She even spoke like a man, lowering the register of her voice in such a way that it roughened it and made her sound like a fresh-faced young man.

Third was the blood. Gibbs had noticed it occasionally in the months since they had taken her aboard, but he had always attributed it to her still-healing wound, figuring that she had packed the cloths under her bandages to soak up the excess blood. But now that he thought about it, he realized that he had never seen any bulges over her abdomen that would have indicated that she had packed extra bandages onto her wounded stomach. That, of course, only left one other use that he could think of that she would have for them. She must have been careless the few times he had found the rags, because otherwise he had seen no signs at all that she had needed them. She had almost never been moody (except for when Edward did something to get under her skin; Connor somehow never managed to really upset her), never complained of pain or cramping, and had never asked for any time to rest or sleep like other women might have done. Certainly, she had been quiet and contemplative, and had confessed to being tired once or twice, but he had attributed that to her personality and her wound, respectively.

Honestly, Gibbs was quite impressed by how well she had hidden her situation.

Now, as he watched Drystan fuss quietly over the dressings on Edward’s back, Gibbs watched the play of emotions on her face- how could he have not noticed, before, how feminine her features were?- and realized, to his amusement, that she was not acting out of guilt. Or, if she was, then the guilt was only a small portion of the emotions running through her.

She had become attached to the captain.

Gibbs could see it, now that he was looking for it. The little, lingering touches, the gentle way that she handled the dressings, the tenderness with which she calmed Edward even when he was attempting to be contrary on purpose… it all added up to one thing.

Drystan held some deep-seated affection for the _Jackdaw’s_ captain. And, unless Gibbs was mistaken, Edward had become rather fond of the girl, himself. He could not pinpoint the precise moment when it had happened; before this whole catastrophe with the British had begun, certainly, but even now Edward took her fussing in stride and even, perhaps, with a little gratitude. There was a look in the captain’s eyes as he watched Drystan move that Gibbs had only ever seen before when Edward had spoken of his wife. It was a subtle thing, this look, and Edward probably did not even notice its presence, yet, himself, but it was there.

It was affection, pure and true. Not the lust that he had seen on Edward’s scarred features countless times when he was in the company of a whore, and neither was it the look of aesthetic appreciation with which he had seen Drystan eye both Connor and Edward from time to time. Drystan, herself, probably did not notice it.

Edward, though he did not know it just yet, was falling in love with Drystan, and it was obvious that the girl had long since done the same, even though she probably did not know it, either. Gibbs could see it. He knew that Connor could see it. Gibbs would have to take bets with the darker man on how long it would take for the pair to notice.

Just judging by the way that Edward had calmed almost immediately beneath Drystan’s touch a little while ago, Gibbs would stake his money on about three or four months, maybe sooner.

It would be interesting to see how it all turned out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Welsh Translations:**  
>  **Cach** – Shit  
>  **Cymry** – The Welsh people  
>  **Rhocyn** – laddie
> 
> I tried to make Edward's situation a little more realistic, here, and add in a bit about the press gangs. After all, not everybody would join the British Navy voluntarily. I thought that having Edward pressed into service, first, and then later joining up of his own volition after discovering that the life suited him, made him seem a bit more down-to-earth. The song, Dacw Nghariad, is a traditional Welsh ballad. In my headcanon, it's Edward's favorite song.
> 
>  **A note on Press Gangs:** In order to fill the quota of sailors in the Navy, sailors would often organize press gangs, or gangs of men who would, through trickery or force, "press" men into naval service.
> 
>  **A note on Edward's Illiteracy:** Most people of Edward's economic and social class were unable to read.


	11. Chapter 10: Recollections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which pasts are revealed, friendships are tested, and mistakes are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that I hate real life?

_"What is a man but the sum of his memories?”_

_August 6, 1715._

“ _C’è afa.”_  Rhian Yates sighed as her brother, Cadell Yates, came to lean against the gunwale to her right. “ _Non mi piace.”_

Cadell chuckled. Rhian did not know if he was amused by her statement or her low, gravelly “boy” voice. It took him a moment to reply; Rhian could see him making the mental switch from English to Italian.

“ _Non è malo, sì?_ ” he countered. “ _C’è il sole, non fa più caldo, e non piove.”_

Rhian shifted restlessly, glancing around at her unofficial watcher. Gregson, though his leg had been removed four days previous, was sitting on the deck, a loaded pistol across his lap, still-sharp eyes fixed upon the Yates siblings where they stood at the gunwale. Sighing, she turned her gaze back out to the rolling sea. There was a sinking feeling in her gut that she simply could not shake.

“ _Mi dispiace,”_ she admitted. “ _Sento colpevole. Io sono colpevole._ ”

 _“Non sei colpevole, sorella mia,”_  Cadell intoned softly.  _“Non era la tua colpa. Non era la tua colpa completamente.”_

Rhian sighed.  _“Sì, tutto era la mia colpa.”_  She swallowed. “ _Oggigiorno, Connor e Edward mi detestano.”_

Cadell nudged her with a frown of slight distress. “ _Ehi. Ehi, non ti detestano.”_

 _“Sì, mi detestano.”_  She shook her head. “ _Ho tradito la loro fiducia.”_  She glanced miserably down at the gunwale. “ _Erano i miei soli amici, e ho tradito la loro amicizia.”_

Cadell took a moment to observe his sister. Then he shook his head and put his arm around her shoulders, squeezing her arm gently, comfortingly.

 _“Tutto sarà giusto,”_ he murmured as Rhian unconsciously leaned into him. “ _Vedrai. Tutto sarà giusto.”_

_“Spero sì.”_

Rhian allowed her brother’s solid warmth to soothe her aching heart, even if it was only for the moment. They were silent for a while, each lost in their own thoughts as they gazed upon the rolling sea, felt the damp wind and warm sunlight on their faces, and smelled the salt on the air. Resting her head on her brother’s strong shoulder, Rhian finally closed her eyes, irresistibly drawn into her memories of her youth.

She chuckled quietly as she recalled something.

“ _C’è?_ ” Cadell inquired, and she felt him nudge her with his chin. She shook her head. Sighing, she made the easy switch back to English.

“I just remembered the day you took me riding for the first time,” she murmured, grinning as she straightened up again. Opening her eyes, Rhian looked over at Cadell. “It was unbearably hot, and you fetched me from the stables right out from under Derwydd’s nose, and we took Gwyn out of town and let her run as fast as she wanted.” Her grin softened to a wistful smile, and she turned her gaze back out to the sea. “I remember that I must have been naught but five or six. It was muggy just like this, but I remember the feel of the wind in my hair, the smell of the grass, and the feeling of utter freedom that came with riding like that.” She paused, and then laughed. “Oh, but Derwydd was furious, do you remember? He tanned my hide, and just about tanned yours, also!”

Cadell barked a laugh. “You remember that? I thought he was going to kill me, regardless of the fact that I was his employer’s son!”

“Why?” Surprised, Rhian and Cadell jumped in unison and turned to face Connor, who had come up behind them without their noticing. Rhian calmed her heartbeat again in less than a second, and warily eyed her former friend.

“’Why’ what?” she inquired, low voice husky from talking so much. Connor did not blink, tawny gaze even as he stared at them.

“Why was Drystan beaten, but you were not?” Connor inquired, shifting his gaze to Cadell. “I was under the impression that the two of you are siblings.”

Cadell glanced at Rhian, who looked at him before shifting uncomfortably. Rhian licked her lips.

“We are,” she replied lightly. “Cadell is my brother, senior to me by three years.”

“Then why were you beaten, and he was not, if you are both the children of the stable-hand’s employer?” Connor challenged her. Rhian sucked in a breath.

“It’s because I was stupid and small and needed to be taught a lesson,” she snapped irritably, and, pulling away from Cadell, she walked off down towards the weather deck, intent on escaping from Connor and Gregson’s watchful gaze.

Cadell trailed after her. Unfortunately, so did Connor. As Rhian glanced back at him with annoyance, Connor frowned at her.

“Edward wanted to speak with you,” he informed her, and Rhian blinked, pausing for a step before she stalked onward.

“Well, I don’t want to speak with him, so he can just go bugger himself,” she groused, and made her way to the ladder so that she could go below. A hand on her shoulder held her back easily; she quickly found her way blocked by her brother’s bulky frame. Glaring up at Cadell, Rhian clenched her fists at her sides, fighting not to plant them on her hips in a very feminine display of indignation.

“Move,” she growled. “I need to go see what I can salvage of my violin.”

“No.” Cadell shook his head. “Your splinters and strings can wait. The captain can’t.” When she continued to glower at him, Cadell sighed. Lowering his voice and switching to Welsh, he said, “Rhian, you  _need_  to see Edward. I know you, sister. You need to speak with him, and with Connor, and clear the air a bit."

Rhian growled something unflattering. Then she jerked her arm from her brother's grip and darted around him, descending into the darkness of the lower deck before he could catch her again. As she fled from them, Rhian tried to quell the angry, guilty roiling of her stomach, and hastened to the gun deck, where she had had her violin stowed before the attack. Rounding a post, she glanced around to where she had formerly kept her hammock.

This was the part of the  _Jackdaw_  that had not been cleaned by their British captors. Though the holes in the hull and the support beams had all been repaired, splinters and other debris still littered the deck; two of the guns lay decimated against the far side of the ship, now little more than useless heaps of scrap. One other gun was listing to one side, missing a wheel, though it and the remaining guns were all serviceable. And there, in a corner against the near wall, lay a heap of canvas that she recognized. Heart sinking, Rhian went over and knelt beside it, reaching out with hesitant fingertips to gently touch the shapeless form.

The canvas pulled away.

Rhian took a sharp breath as she beheld the remains of her precious violin. The case had been forced open by some impact or another; through it, she could see splintered wood and broken strings, horsehair limp and tangled around pegs that were missing entire chips out of them. Swallowing, she withdrew the case from the canvas sack that held it, and pried the black-lacquered wood box open. The hinges gave a whine of protest, but she managed to gently bully it open.

The violin was unsalvageable. The neck had broken off entirely, the strings had mostly popped, and the body was in several pieces. The bridge was nowhere to be found. Even the fingerboard was cracked and bent at such an angle that it was only barely still a single piece of wood. It was possible that she might be able to use one or two of the pegs, still, but that did her little good without a full violin with which to utilize them. Even the bow was gone, snapped completely in half so that one end, still attached by the bow hairs, had wrapped around the remains of the neck like some kind of noose.

As Rhian swallowed and trailed her fingers across the most intact portion of the body, she took in the familiar flamed pattern of the lacquered wood, now marred by the splintering along the edges. It had been the part of the back where her adoptive parents, Derwydd and Branwyn, had inscribed a message to her after she had informed them that she was going to sea.

_Boed i Dduw fendithio eich trafodaethau yn y misoedd a ddaw, Rhian Yates. Derwydd a Branwyn Blevins. 30 Gorffennaf 1708. Be safe-_

Part of the inscription had been snapped away. Rhian felt her throat close up as she ran the tips of her fingers over the familiar letters, recalling the look on Branwyn’s face as she had hugged Rhian close before the younger woman had gone down to the docks for the last time.

_“You be safe, now. I don’t want to hear from some condolence letter that you’ve gotten yourself killed or drowned at sea. Understand?”_

_“Yes, mum.”_

_“And work on that voice of yours. You sound too much like the girl you are. Become a boy.”_

_“Yes, mum.”_

_“Better. And make sure that you take good care of yourself. Disease kills sailors just as often as wounds, drowning, and poor nutrition do.”_

_“Yes, mum.”_

_“What name have you decided to use?”_

_“Drystan. Drystan Yates.”_

_“All right. Be safe, beloved.”_

_“I will, mum.”_

A hand landed upon Rhian’s shoulder. She blinked herself out of her reverie to find that her cheeks had become damp; sniffling slightly, she reached up and dragged the cuff of her sleeve across her face, drying the skin. Then she tossed the rest of her violin into its case, got to her feet, and turned to face Cadell.

“It was Derwydd’s,” she murmured mournfully, eyes glued to the inscribed piece sitting in her palm. “And it was his father’s before him, and belonged to his father’s father before that. He entrusted it to me as though I was his own child, and now it’s gone.”

Cadell gave her an even, understanding look, and squeezed her shoulder. “He’ll just be grateful that it was the violin and not you that got blown to splinters,  _chwaer._  Just as I am.”

Rhian nodded sadly. Already, her fingers itched to dance along fine catgut, her ears longed to listen to the uplifting sounds of the music that she was so fond of playing, her eyes ached to watch the sailors dance and sing and make merry to the sounds that her skilled hands produced. Again, Cadell squeezed her shoulder.

“Are you ready to stop fighting us and go see the captain, now?” he inquired softly, a note of teasing humor in his warm voice. Rhian gave him a small, half-hearted smile.

“I suppose,” she murmured. Cadell nodded, and let the way back up to the weather deck. Rhian trailed silently after him, tucking the inscribed piece of wood into her pocket as she went. Connor was waiting for them back up top, and when he saw the depressed slump to Rhian’s shoulders and the disappointment on her features, his own annoyed frown softened.

“Were you able to salvage anything?” he questioned quietly. Rhian shook her head.

“I might be able to use the pegs, still, but no,” she replied. “It’s in pieces. There’s nothing to be done.” Sighing, she rounded Connor and Cadell, and led the way to the captain’s cabin. “Let’s get this conversation over with.”

Exchanging a glance, the two men trailed after her. Rhian tapped twice on the door. Then she let herself inside.

Edward was sitting in the chair at his desk, which would have been normal, but for the fact that he had the chair turned backwards so that he was straddling it. His chest was braced against the chair back, and he was shirtless, exposing to sight the heavy bandaging around his chest and shoulders. He glanced up as Rhian entered, and she saw that he had been sketching something on a scrap of paper in a shaky hand. Edward’s features lightened from his scowl of concentration when he saw that it was Rhian who had entered. He tucked the paper and charcoal away as she approached him. Behind her, she heard Connor enter, heard Cadell saying that he would await them on the quarterdeck. The door closed.

“Glad to see you finally decided to talk to me,” Edward observed dryly, leaning back a bit so that he could brace his forearms across the back of the chair. Rhian caught his wince at the movement.

“How’s the back?” she asked coolly, crossing her arms over her chest as she came to stand in front of the desk. Edward gave her a look.

“Sore,” he admitted, and then nodded to the cot. “Mind taking a seat so’s I don’t have to look up at you?”

Rhian did as she had been told. Once she had seated herself gingerly on the edge of the cot, she turned her stare back to him, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

“What d’you want?” she demanded. “I’m sure Gregson’s missing his entertainment, and I hate to deprive him.”

Edward gave her a slight scowl for her impertinence. “I just wanted to talk.”

“About what?” She got to her feet, agitated, and paced towards the door. Connor crossed his arms over his chest and planted himself in front of it. Rhian scowled. She would not be escaping this conversation, it seemed. She turned her glare on Edward, furious with how they had cornered her.

“How about why the  _cach_  you betrayed us!” Edward had dropped all pretense of pleasantness, now, and Rhian swallowed painfully as he glared up at her. The volume of his voice rose and his Welsh accent thickened in accordance with his frustration. “And how about we talk about how you let them keelhaul me, too!  _And_  about why you even bothered to help us mutiny!  _Cach, feinir,_  I just don’t understand it all!”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Her shout startled even her into silence. For a long moment, she and Edward simply stared at each other, stunned. For that short eternity, everything else faded away: Connor went unnoticed in the background, the rocking of the ship on the waves seemed to still, and even the cabin seemed to dim. All Rhian could focus on were Edward’s blue, blue eyes, and the shocked-hurt-disbelieving expression on his rugged features.

Rhian swallowed and turned away, pacing over to the windows at the stern and hugging herself uncertainly as she stared out through the glass that distorted the view of the outside. How could she explain herself properly without either of them trying to kill her, or deciding to maroon her somewhere? Where did she even start?

“What was Cadell referring to when he said that you were beaten as a child but he was not?” Connor’s voice snapped Rhian out of her deliberations, and she stiffened. “I have a feeling that you could probably begin there, if you must.”

Rhian licked her lips. The pace of her breathing picked up, and she glanced around for something with which to distract herself, or with which to distract them. She dimly heard Edward ask for clarification, heard Connor explain what it was that he had overheard between her and Cadell, but she could do nothing to combat the rush of anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her.

A hand landed on her shoulder. Rhian came back to herself to find that she was breathing much too quickly; she was beginning to feel dizzy.

“Drystan!” Connor’s voice calling her name made her focus on him, drove away some of the panic that had nearly overtaken her. “Drystan, breathe.”

Rhian took a deep breath, and then another. The reintroduction of air into her starved lungs made her head rush and left her exhausted; she would have swooned if not for Connor’s strong grip on her shoulders. As it was, he gently guided her back over to sit upon Edward’s cot, and knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his own and holding her eyes with his.

“Whatever reason there was for the way in which you were raised, neither Edward nor I will judge you,” Connor told her lowly, but firmly. “That much, I can promise you. We will not judge you for the circumstances of your origins.”

Rhian stared at him in disbelief for a long moment. Then she barked out a bitter laugh and pulled her hands out of his. She finally noticed that she had clenched them into fists; as she gingerly unfolded them, she found that her fingernails had punched straight through the skin of her palms, and were now crusted with drying blood. Oh, well. What were a few more scars to add to her ever-growing collection?

“You  _will_  judge me,” she informed him bitterly. “You’ll judge me, just like everyone else has.”

Connor stared at her levelly, but Rhian could not meet his eyes. The shame of the situation nearly overwhelmed her again, and she fought to keep her composure.

“You can tell me,” he told her quietly, and reached up, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, to make her meet his gaze. “I promise you, I will not judge you. Whatever the circumstances, I swear to you by the Creator’s name that I will not judge you.”

Rhian swallowed. Somehow, some way, she believed him. Connor had never been anything but honest with her, and even though she had deceived him and Edward both, she had not done it out of any malicious desire to see them harmed.

Connor, she trusted.

“My father is Berwyn Yates,” she began slowly, keeping her gaze locked with Connor’s tawny eyes. “He’s a merchant, rather successful, too, unless things have gone downhill since the last time we saw each other seven years ago. His wife is Deryn Yates, Cadell’s mother.”

She paused, and allowed that statement to sink in, watching as realization dawned on Edward’s fair features across the room. Rhian nodded slowly, lowering her eyes as the shame washed over her once again.

“My mother, Aderyn Rice, was a servant in my father’s household,” she continued softly. “He took a liking to her at some point. I was born on the first of October in 1691, and my mother died that same day. I was, and always will be, a bastard. Illegitimate. Whichever way you spin it, whatever you want to call it, it makes no difference. My father was an adulterer, and I’m the product of his sins.”

There was a moment of utter silence in the cabin. Rhian felt her cheeks heat as the red wash of shame colored her skin, and tears welled in her eyes before she blinked them back and turned to look out the windows again, hiding her face from them so that they could not see her cry. When she next spoke, her voice was strangled, and she had to clear her throat before she could continue.

“My father was kind enough to acknowledge me as his and give me his name,” she said, but it was with disdain. “And then he gave me to his stable hand, Derwydd, and his wife, Branwen, to raise because Deryn couldn’t stand to look at me and be reminded of her husband’s infidelity.”

Oh, yes. Berwyn Yates had acknowledged her as his daughter. However, that had only ostracized her more. Thanks to Berwyn Yates’s acknowledgement, the community in which she had grown up had known that she had been born as the child of an adulterer, and they had labeled her accordingly. Her ears still rang with the taunts, the names, the scoffs of  _bastard_  and  _worthless_  and  _whore_ and _she’ll probably be just like her father, who had no self-control_.

“I grew up being called  _bastard_ , and  _whore_ , and  _worthless_ ,” she spat bitterly, the words tumbling from her lips like so many stones. “Children would throw rocks at me in the streets because their parents would not stop them from hurting an illegitimate child. I was shooed or kicked away from stands in the marketplace because they thought I would steal their goods. And despite the fact that Derwydd and Branwyn loved me as their own, I was always made very, very aware that I would never be accepted, and that  _other,_  more  _upstanding_ people would never help a child of sin.”

She pushed Connor away, then, and got to her feet so that she could stalk back over to the stern windows, taking a deep, shaking breath as she leaned against the sill and allowed her forehead to rest against the foggy panes of glass. The tears trickled, hot and shameful, down her cheeks, and she took a steadying breath to hide the fact that she was actually  _crying._

God, but Rhian  _hated_  crying.

“I learned early on that I had few people to rely on aside from myself,” she continued quietly. “I was blessed with Derwydd and Branwyn, doubly blessed when Cadell decided that he loved me despite the circumstances of my birth, and triply blessed when Berwyn turned a blind eye to the fact that my brother wanted to  _be_  my brother and acknowledge me as his sister.” She paused, and choked out a chuckle. “I can’t tell you the number of times Cadell and I came home from the market with black eyes or split lips because I would be picked on, and he would stand up for me and get beaten for it.” Her voice lowered. “He is an amazing brother, even today.”

Breathing steadily, she reached up and swiped her hand across her face. “But I learned my lesson well, the lesson they were trying to teach me. And that was that I had to do whatever I had to do to survive, to be strong enough to rise above the stigma of my birth and  _survive_  and  _thrive._  And if that meant that I would have to betray someone who trusted me, then I would betray someone who trusted me.”

Rhian finally turned to look back at Connor and Edward. Connor had seated himself on the side of the cot, and was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face; Edward, likewise, was impassive, though his gaze bored into her in such a way that Rhian felt as though he was staring into her very soul. For a second, she thought she saw his eyes flash golden. Then the moment was gone, and Rhian chalked it up to a trick of the light.

“Survival is what I do for a living,” she murmured, staring pathetically into Edward’s ocean-blue gaze as she referenced the conversation that they had had on the day when the British privateers had attacked and caught them. “The day of the attack, I overheard Javier and Marco talking about a plan of some kind, and I heard Estevan’s voice for a brief moment before they hushed themselves. Shortly thereafter, I found the hammocks dragging behind the ship, cut them loose, and realized that we were missing some barrels of supplies. I had no solid proof of their guilt, however, and as I had sailed with them two years previously, I didn’t want to betray them.”

Edward’s eyes flashed golden again. This time, Rhian was certain that it had not been a trick of the light, and she blinked in surprise.

“So, what?” he demanded, his voice a low growl. “You decided that you were more loyal to them? Is that it?”

“No!” Rhian felt the tears well up again, and hastily turned away, squeezing her eyes shut and dragging her sleeve across her face. “I didn’t want to betray  _anyone!”_

She tried to stem the flow of her tears, but they would not be stopped. They streamed down her face in earnest, and her breathing hitched until she started hiccupping. Ashamed, she yanked the sleeves of her shirt down over her hands, and pressed her palms into her closed eyes, catching the tears as they welled there and overflowed.

“By the time I realized for certain what they’d done, it was already too late,” she choked out. The words caught in her throat, and she coughed to get them clear. “You two had already gone to try to disable the ships, and when they boarded us…” She took a shaking breath. “When they boarded us, I knew that it was either feign treachery and help the British, keep some autonomy, and  _survive,_  or resist and be killed. I chose to  _live.”_

She went quiet for a moment, the cabin silent but for her shuddering gasps and the odd hiccup or sniffle as she unsuccessfully tried to fight back the tears. When she finally spoke again, Rhian had more or less calmed her breathing, though the tears were still dampening her shirtsleeves.

“So the British believed that I had betrayed you,” she concluded quietly. “They allowed me to retain some autonomy, and when I could, I brought medical supplies to you for Edward’s wound. I brought Cadell over to my side, and together, we planned how to help the Jackdaws retake the ship. The day you were keelhauled, I was over on the  _Sophie_  with Cadell _,_  preparing the diversion.”

“The fire in the rigging,” Connor realized, voice soft. Rhian nodded shakily.

“It was my idea,” she admitted. “I had just fired the pitch and was about to throw it across the deck when Estevan and the others found me. They held a gun on me, and might have killed me had Cadell not come up behind them and knocked two of them out. I disabled the two closest to me, which left Estevan and Javier. Cadell pulled his pistols on them, and they surrendered without much more than some unoriginal cursing.” Rhian took another deep breath, calming slightly. “We bound them into one of the boats and set the rigging alight. Then we rowed over to the  _Jackdaw_. You know the rest.”

She did not look at them, could not bear to see the condemnation in their eyes. Rhian knew that what she had done was unforgiveable; treachery, however it was intended, was a horrible crime to commit against one’s friends, and her betrayal had nearly culminated in Edward’s death. For them to forgive her was too much to ask for; for them to allow her to remain unpunished was inconceivable.

For a long time, the cabin was silent. Rhian eventually stemmed the flooding of her eyes and was able to brace her hands against the sternside windowsill once more. After a moment, her fingers found the scrap of inscribed wood that was all that she had been able to salvage from her precious violin. Withdrawing it from the folds of her vest, she studied it for a long moment. Then her eyes began to sting once more, and she braced her hand against the sill again, turning her gaze back out to the sea beyond the wavering glass. For their parts, Connor and Edward were quiet, more than likely absorbing the tale she had told them and judging for themselves whether or not she was being truthful. Rhian, herself, knew it to be the honest to God truth. The other two, however, had no such reassurance.

At length, Rhian heard one of them release a long breath, and tensed. Here it came: the judgment, the rancor, the vitriol was about to spew. They would condemn her, she just knew it: whether to a life on shore or to death, it made little difference. If they killed her today, at least it would be quick. If they left her in a port or marooned her, she would die sooner rather than later. If a gang did not decide to murder her, she would probably waste away before long. Rhian had been at sea too long to leave. The ocean was now as much a part of her as her own heart. Just as a person would die without their heart, so would Rhian Yates die without the open sea.

“We’ll drop you in Nassau.” And there it was, ringing like a cannon shot in her ears. Rhian closed her eyes and swallowed, acid roiling in her stomach as the world seemed to rock around her. “Should you decide to go back to the sea, I’m sure there are plenty of ships that’ll take you on. Go gather what’s left of your things. We dock in 20 minutes.”

Rhian swallowed thickly and nodded, turning around and heading for the door in silence. She kept her head down, her shame too strong to allow her to meet their gazes. As she left the cabin and closed the door behind her, she glimpsed Cadell turning towards her from where he was leaning against the bulkhead just outside. As she brushed past him, she heard him take a breath.

“Drystan, what-?”

Rhian said nothing, but descended quickly below, desperate for the darkness and silence of the hold where none of the crew could see her despair.

 _God in Heaven,_  but she hated crying.

* * *

“You do not believe her?”

Connor’s question cut through the silence of Edward’s cabin, and the older man sighed silently, feeling the weight of the stone in his gut even more than he already had been. He was sitting on his cot, laboriously pulling on his boots and a shirt; Connor had walked out on him in silence not too long after Drystan had left, and Edward had not had the heart to call back either of them. No, not after the judgment he had just passed not 15 minutes before.

“It’s not a matter of whether I believe her or not,” he said, shoulders slumping after he finally got his arms through his shirtsleeves. A sick feeling sent acid skittering up his throat for a second before he swallowed it back down. “She betrayed us to save her own skin. Whether it was well-intentioned or not doesn’t matter. It’s the fact of her betrayal.”

Connor folded his arms over his chest, frowning thoughtfully down at the captain. Edward wondered what the darker man was seeing.

“Are you certain that you would not rather keep her aboard?” Connor inquired quietly. When Edward just gave him a bleak look, Connor’s lips thinned. “I understand your position, Captain. Trust me, I understand. However, given the current state of crew morale and your own physical and emotional state, I wonder if it would not be wiser to show a little mercy.”

Edward gave a half-hearted little scoff, but his gaze was distant as he contemplated the question.

“I’ve already shown her as much mercy as I can afford to,” he murmured, and the words were ash in his mouth. The hollowness in his chest grew to a tangible ache. “At any rate, I have to go on the account again, so I’m sure she’ll be… be replaced soon enough…”

He took a strangely shaky breath, wondering why it was that his eyes were burning. Perhaps it was because he empathized with her situation to a startling degree, or because despite her betrayal, she was still one of his two best friends in the world. After Connor left, she would be his only best friend in the world, and now Edward had been forced to throw away all of it.

“Edward.” Edward looked up at the soft murmur of his name to find that Connor was staring down at him in sympathy. Edward shook his head and got to his feet with a grunt of effort and pain as his wounds tugged.

“Don’t, lad,” he said. “Don’t make this harder than it’s already going to be.”

But Connor would not be swayed. Maybe he was Edward’s descendant, after all, with all the bull-headedness he displayed.  _Cach,_  but he reminded Edward of his mother, sometimes, with that stubborn set of his jaw.

“You need her.” Connor’s statement was sure, as was the determination in his tawny eyes. “You need her, and she needs you. Even I can see that.”

“We don’t need each other, lad,” Edward replied, sighing as he walked over to the peg upon which his robes hung. The heavy, blue and white cloth seemed rougher than usual against his skin as he brushed his fingertips across it before taking them down to don the garments. “Drystan’s a strong girl. She don’t need my help to get through the world.”

“Yes, she does!” Connor exclaimed, startling Edward with the forcefulness of it. Connor was all but glaring at Edward as he lowered his voice back down to a reasonable level. “You may not see it, but Drystan has come to rely on you for more than just physical support. You are one of her only friends in the world, just as she is one of yours.”

Edward scowled and opened his mouth to refute it. Then he realized that he could not argue at all, and closed it again, sighing as he thought about it.

Damn it all, but Connor was right. Edward might talk tough and act tough, but in reality, he had so few people that he trusted that he could not afford to lose any of them. When Connor left them to go back to his own time (as unbelievable as that still seemed), Edward would be all but alone in this hemisphere of the world. Sure, he had Edward Teach and Ben Hornigold who he could, to some extent, rely on in a fight, but they were mentors, allies. Not  _friends_. Not like Drystan was, like Connor was.

The weight of the robes hanging from his shoulders seemed all the heavier, in that moment, as Edward finished with his buttons and leathers and absently wandered over to the windows at the stern. Through the cloudy, swirling glass, he could make out the vague shapes of the rolling sea and the other ships that were sailing in to dock; beyond them, he could see the other side of the island where it curved around, and the houses that fronted the water of Nassau’s port.

On the other hand, Edward thought, Drystan had betrayed them when her own life was in peril. Such a thing proved that she cared more about her life than she did for the lives of her Captain, friends, and crewmates. She was a loose cannon, a danger to them all. How could he trust her again? …But she had also orchestrated the distraction that allowed his crew to rebel against their captors and take back their ship. She had risked her life, had indeed nearly lost it in the process of freeing them, and also saved his own life when she had gotten the medicine to Connor and Gibbs to use on Edward. From what Connor had told him, she had breathed for Edward when he had stopped breathing on his own power. She had watched over him for the 10 days it had taken for him to wake after the keelhauling. And if that did not show that she was still his friend, if not his best friend, then he did not know what did.

_Better to marry your best friend than to end up like… like me. Me and Caroline, that is._

That was what he had told Connor after the night in Havana when Drystan had been poisoned. Edward did not think he felt such for Drystan, no, but she was still his best friend. He still… still…

God in Heaven, but Edward loved her, in a way.

Still undecided, Edward sighed heavily and leaned against the windowsill, closing his eyes and allowing his forehead to come to rest on the cool panes of glass.

His hand brushed something hard, sharp and uneven. Edward frowned and opened his eyes. It was a piece of dark wood, the flamed pattern of it unmistakable despite the fact that it was no longer part of its larger body. The edges were rough and splintered, the varnish flaking off with every sliver of wood that separated from the rest of the piece. Feeling a little melancholy, Edward picked it up, turning it over in his hands under the weak light filtering in from outside.

_Boed i Ddu-_

What?

Edward tilted the piece again, so that the light hit it at just the right angle. There was an inscription on the wood, engraved into the piece and then varnished again so that it would not stand out as obvious to the casual observer.  _Cach,_  but Edward cursed his inability to read, then. If the letters and the few numbers he was seeing were anything to go by, it had been a personal inscription to the owner of the wood, and in turn, the violin of which it had been a part. Edward glanced up again, heart thudding faster in his chest, and spun away from the window, piece of wood in hand, to finish arming himself.

“Call Cadell in here,” Edward instructed Connor. Connor looked confused for a second, and then he went to do as he had been told. Three of four pistols were loaded and in their holsters before Connor returned, and Edward looked up from ramming the shot into the last one as the younger man entered the cabin. When he saw the frown on Connor’s face, Edward’s heart dropped like a stone into the pit of his stomach.

“They’ve left,” he realized, and then swore, finishing the loading of the pistol and jamming it into the harness across his chest. A moment later, he had sheathed both his cutlasses at either hip, and had crossed the cabin to the niche between his sea chest and the wall, where a black shape rested snugly. Edward painfully leaned down and pulled the item from its resting place.

The violin case was made of mahogany, and Edward knew the instrument inside to be without an aesthetic equal, now that Drystan’s had been destroyed. It was full-size, the bow was in good condition, and the strings might need replacing, but that was easily done. Edward had not played in at least six months, now. He figured that he would probably not play again anytime soon. Hell, he had picked the damn thing up in a raid back in 1713, soon after the Treaties had made him an outlaw. It had been obvious that it was a fine instrument, but Edward had never had any real skill with it.

Maybe it was time to pass it along to an owner who would use it and love it more than he did.

Edward turned to Connor, finding that the other man had quickly donned his own robes and had pulled his hood up over his head. Connor was armed with his usual ensemble.

“Let’s go see if we can catch them,” Edward said quietly, and headed for the door. A quick word to Gregson and Gibbs later, and the two men were ashore, weaving through the crowds with an expertise known only to errant seafarers like themselves. The docks, of course, were packed full to bursting; the people of Nassau were rowdier than the ones at the Havana docks, being as Nassau was a pirate port. It took the pair a good ten minutes to break through to the streets beyond. They had seen neither of the Yates siblings among the crowds, so Edward surmised that they would have to start by searching the taverns and inns along the waterfront, see if either of the Yateses had gone to find another pirate captain who was on the account.

“You take the inns and taverns on that side of the street,” Edward instructed, pointing to the opposite side from where they were. “I’ll take this side. Ask if anyone of their description has been seen, or has been asking about ships to sign on to. Meet me back here in an hour.”

“Right.” Connor nodded, and vanished to do as he had been told. Edward, for his part, went off to do as he had said he would, feeling every step as a knife in his back and a stone in his gut. Every second that passed was one more second during which Drystan and Cadell Yates could disappear forever, and Edward knew that Cadell, at least, wanted to go back to the British Navy. If he talked Drystan into doing the same, of if she signed on with another pirate ship, Edward knew that his chances of seeing her again were slim to none.

Edward found that he had to fight down a surge of nausea at the thought.

As he entered the first tavern, he asked himself,  _why do I care so much whether or not I see her again?_  And as he asked the barkeep if he had seen anyone fitting Drystan and Cadell’s descriptions, Edward found that he had no answer to the question. All he knew was that he could not allow things to end like this; he had made a mistake in sending her away, and he could not bear the thought that they would part so poorly. Upon receiving the barkeep’s negative answer, Edward let it be known that he was on the account, or recruiting, and went on his way. The second tavern turned up similar results, as did the third building, an inn. By the time he got to the fourth, Edward was fighting back the despair that was building in his chest.

How could two people who wanted to be found disappear so quickly?

Drystan and her brother were not in the third tavern, either, and Edward sighed dejectedly before telling the barkeep that he was on the account, and that anybody who wanted to sign on to his crew should go to the first tavern on the street, and that he and his first mate would be there until the morning. Then he left and headed back down the street to where he could see Connor waiting for him. Approaching the darker man, Edward looked half-hopefully to him. Connor just shook his head solemnly.

“They have not been through this street,” he informed Edward. “It might be that they headed down another street somewhere. I doubt that we will find them easily.”

Edward gave a short nod and, beckoning for Connor to follow him, led the way to the first tavern on the street.

“I don’t have the strength to go traipsing all around Nassau,” Edward informed him quietly. “My back just won’t allow it. I also have to stay in one location for the majority of the night so’s anyone who wants to sign on can do so. We have fifty men to replace, after all.”

Connor nodded silently, and slanted a sidelong glance at Edward as they paused in front of the tavern.

“I hear that I am very good at finding people, whether they desire to be found or not,” he hinted. Edward returned the glance.

“It wouldn’t hurt to have an ear to the ground for recent happenings,” he replied. “Go have a look around, if you can. I’ll be here until dawn.”

Connor nodded again, and then he vanished into the darkening street, blending seamlessly with the crowds. Edward just tried to fight down the hollowness in his chest as he entered the tavern and sat down at the bar with the violin case propped up between his feet, ordering a pint of ale to tide him over to the morning.

It would be a very long night. Edward just hoped that Connor would be able to find Drystan and Cadell, if only so that Edward could apologize to his best friend.

God, he hoped that he could see her, one last time… If only…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Welsh Translations:**  
>  **Cach** – Shit  
>  **Boed i Dduw fendithio eich ymdrechion yn y misoedd a ddaw, Rhian Yates. Derwydd a Branwyn Blevins. 30 Gorffennaf 1708.** \- May God bless your endeavors in the coming months, Rhian Yates. Derwydd and Branwyn Blevins. July 30, 1708.  
>  **Chwaer** – sister  
>  **Feinir** – lass, lassie
> 
>  **Italian Translations:**  
>  **C'è afa.** \- It's muggy.  
>  **Non mi piace.** \- I don't like it. (It does not please me.)  
>  **Non è malo, sì?** \- It's not bad, yes?  
>  **C'è il sole, non fa più caldo, e non piove.** \- It's sunny, not too hot, and it's not raining.  
>  **Mi dispiace.** \- I'm sorry.  
>  **Sento colpevole. Io sono colpevole.** \- I feel guilty. I am guilty.  
>  **Non sei colpevole, sorella mia.** \- You're not guilty, my sister.  
>  **Non era la tua colpa. Non era la tua colpa completamente.** \- It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault completely.  
>  **Sì, tutto era la mia colpa.** \- Yes, everything was my fault.  
>  **Oggigiorno, Connor e Edward mi detestano.** \- These days, Connor and Edward hate me. (Nowadays, Connor and Edward detest me.)  
>  **Ehi. Ehi, non ti detestano.** \- Hey. Hey, they don't hate you.  
>  **Sì, mi detestano.** \- Yes, they hate me.  
>  **Ho tradito la loro fiducia.** \- I betrayed their trust.  
>  **Erano i miei soli amici, e ho tradito la loro amicizia.** \- They were my only friends, and I betrayed their friendship.  
>  **Tutto sarà giusto.** \- Everything will be all right.  
>  **Vedrai. Tutto sarà giusto.** \- You'll see. Everything will be all right.  
>  **Spero che sì.** \- I hope so.  
>  **C'è?** \- What is it?
> 
>  **A note on Edward's Illiteracy:** Most people of Edward's economic and social class were unable to read.
> 
> This story has NOT been abandoned! Life just decided to fire a full broadside on my boat of happiness, and then I got hit by a massive case of writer's block. Things are moving forward in every sense of the phrase, however, so hopefully, we will see another chapter comparatively soon.


	12. Temporary Hiatus

Hello, everyone!

I'm so, so sorry that this is not a chapter! I know, I know, I hate it when authors do this, too, and I imagine that you all probably want to throttle me right about now for faking you out like this, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm not dead, yet (I can dance and I can sing...) and that I am still working on Sum of Memories.

So, here's the scoop:

I graduated from college in early May. Since then, I've been working almost full-time at my old job, interviewing at potential new jobs, and trying to find a position within my professional field as well as cleaning out four years' worth of schtuff from my room that I let pile up while I was at college. It's been a hot mess, though I've been making great strides.

Unfortunately, this hasn't left much time, energy, or inspiration for writing of any kind. Such is the curse of the working world.

Sum of Memories is still in progress. I haven't abandoned it. Chapters 12-14 are sitting on my OneDrive, three-quarters of the way finished, but I haven't had the inspiration to keep writing this story. (Which, when I think about it, makes no sense, since I've been working on other things, such as Skyrim, Final Fantasy, and more.) I will continue in time, but I also want to give you all my best effort possible, and unfortunately, I haven't been able to produce that for the past few months.

Again, I'm very sorry. If you have any questions, I will answer them to the best of my ability. You can either review, or send me a message via PM, if you're a member.

Thank you all so much!

Sincerely,

RevenantAvenger90


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